The Intrepid Artefacts
by DevonshireMole
Summary: The badger lord of Salamandastron, Meledan Saxonos, is preparing Mossflower for invasion. Why? What does he know that no other beast does? And do his actions have anything to do with the unusual circumstances around the sinking of a pirate ship?
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

An unnerving stillness lay about the sands that stretched out in front of the mountains, separating the high peaks of the western perimeter from the low depths of the vast ocean. Five miles of barely valuable land that came under the territory of the extinct volcano that teetered at the edge of the surface world, its solitary shape coning upwards towards the sky, letting loose from its summit a slow, casual plume of smoke; the signal that made this mountain the unavoidable challenge for any vermin that dared set foot upon the sacredly peaceful lands that it defended.

Salamandastron.

Emblazoned against an unusually large full moon, it was a beacon home for the 7th Shore and Spear Patrol. Commanded by Lieutenant Brasson Fernwood, the unit was making the last of its week-long patrols for the winter season, and upon the morn of the following day, they would be relieved by the 12th Stalwart and Sound Regiment, who would pick up the more intense rota of patrolling the southern shoreline at the most probable time of year for invasion.

Lieutenant Fernwood and his troops would be glad of the relief, and a good long rest for the half season – a rest consisting mostly of training drills, catching up with their loved ones, but perhaps more importantly, feasting. After weeks of rations – with rare opportunities whilst back at the mountain to have a proper meal – they would be glad to finally sit down in the large mess hall and eat as much of the beautifully prepared home cooking as they were able. As the officer looked around his score strong force, he could tell he wasn't the only one thinking of food.

'By jove, I can't wait to get me paws on Rubella's apple and blueberry pie,' Corporal Corsan remarked, his eyes glazing over, his feet only subconsciously submitting to the steady rhythm that Fernwood was keeping.

'Hmm,' sighed Patroller Apax, 'but not before her jam and honey scones. Then the pie, with custard and cream, washed down with a cool flagon of damson cordial.'

'Cordial?' Fernwood suddenly piped up. 'With spring coming around, I'm going to sample the latest offerings from the Redwall brewery. Bardon's Cider, here I come, wot?'

'I've got a good mind to join you, sah,' Colour Sergeant Lepus Holm nodded in agreement, 'make it a night to sample what otters do best! Skilly'n'duff and cider!'

The patrol was already salivating as they neared the smooth rocks that formed the path up to the great oak doors to their mountain home. Fernwood slowed the pace, and brought his patrol to a halt. Standing to attention outside the entrance, the lieutenant raised his long javelin high into the air, and called out the password to a time set by the stamping paws of his hares.

'The nights are long and the wind is tough,

We're coming home and we've had enough.

Brace for the sound of our gnashing jaws,

Enough of your dawdling and open these doors!'

The beat stopped, and then silence. For a few seconds, only the sound of the wind could be heard, and then, the great welcoming sound of a metal bar being moved met the long ears of the returning hares, and the doors swung open, revealing two guards and a large hallway leading to stone steps upwards into the mountain.

'Welcome home, lieutenant!' said one of the hares holding the doorway open.

'It's good to be home, Willup!' said Fernwood with a broad smile, before sensing the tone of those he led, and ordered a forward march into the mountain.

'Hares of the 7th Shore and Spear; officers of the Long Patrol; into Salamandastron...quick march!'

At double time, the hares strode nobly into the fortress, and were brought to a halt once more at the bottom of the stone steps, which led up to an archway opening that framed the most perfect sight for a Salamandastron hare: the mess hall.

Lieutenant Fernwood, whimpering at the sight of the hanging chandeliers in the hall and the warmth that he could feel from the furnaces burning beneath the floor of the extinct volcano, spun around to face his resolute soldiers. 'Troop, right turn...dismissed!'

At those words, chaos reigned. The twenty warrior hares of one of the most prestigious and highly decorated units in the Long Patrol broke out into a hungry rabble, dashing off within seconds up the stone steps into the mess hall. Slightly disorientated by the tornado that had just rushed past him, Lieutenant Fernwood took some time readjusting himself before he too sprinted desperately up into the atrium-like dining room.

Once their platters had been filled from the numerous trays that stood by the serving hatch, the unit settled down at the tables to converse with their fellows from other platoons in the Long Patrol. A force that numbered around four thousand in total, the army dedicated itself to the protection of the western shores and the safety and harmony of the country beyond. From Luke's Beach in the north to the Great Stream to the south; and from the lapping waves that crash against Salamandastron itself to the lands just east of the famous Redwall Abbey, was under the protection of the military headquartered at this mountain. Covering such a large area of land undoubtedly produced numerous stories and remarkable adventures, which all of the hares were happy to share with their friends.

Brasson Fernwood and Lepus Holm grabbed their hot skilly'n'duff and a jug of Bardon's cider and went to sit at a table often reserved for officers, where General Bannox Granden also sat, reading a despatches report, and – unusually for his species – sipping daintily at a bowl of tomato, basil and leek soup.

'Evening, sah!' Fernwood remarked jovially, setting himself down on one side of the general, whilst Holm took a seat opposite. 'Anything interesting happening abroad in Mossflower Country?'

General Granden, unmoved by the breakdown of protocol used when addressing a superior officer, did not look up from the report, and took another spoonful of soup before replying.

'This report isn't from the 10th Honour and Hunt,' he said coolly, 'it's from the Salamander Guards.'

Fernwood and Holm looked quizzically at one another before the latter turned to Granden.

'The Guards are away from the mountain?'

Bannox Granden finished his soup and pushed the bowl away to allow space for the despatches report to be placed directly in front of him. He linked his paws together and placed them on top of the small pile of paper to address the two inquisitive officers directly.

'Very early this morning, the 10th Honour and Hunt, on their usual patrol pattern north to Luke's Beach, over the north western hills and back down into Mossflower, encountered a small rowing boat with ten sea rats on board paddling furiously into the mouth of the River Moss. Naturally, they captured the blighters and found out that they had abandoned their vessel out to sea when they came under attack from what they referred to as a "fire boat".' Here, General Granden paused to check the looks on their faces.

'Colonel Windscut sent a squad back to the mountain with the prisoners, and they are currently being detained in the holding cells. The squad then returned post haste to the regiment. Now, this morning the Summit Sentry spotted a small fire on the horizon, appearing to head towards Luke's Beach. After the report I had been given by Windscut's hares, I thought it prudent to investigate: unfortunately, the Salamander Guards was the only unit available at the time, and I wasn't about to abandon our good hedgehog friends in the north.'

Satisfied that he had answered the question posed by the colour sergeant, General Granden picked up the report and his bowl and headed for the kitchens.

'Hold up, old chap!' Lieutenant Fernwood called out, causing Granden to stop and turn around. 'You can't just stop there!'

'I think I bally well can,' huffed Granden, feeling rather ruffled. 'Colour Sergeant Holm's question, rhetorical or otherwise, concerned the reason why the Guards are away from the mountain. I think I answered the question more than sufficiently.' He continued on his walk towards the kitchen.

Torn between their meal and their curiosity, Fernwood and Holm glanced down at their plates and at the Patrol General several times before letting their stomachs dictate their actions.

'Probably nothing anyway, eh, old chap?'

'Hmmlph, indeed, probably just somebody having a campfire, wot?'

General Bannox Granden deposited his bowl on the table next to the door leading to the kitchen and walked out of the mess hall into a corridor that curved around the mountain, leading upwards in a spiral towards the chambers at the very peak of Salamandastron. He began his ascent, his mind still in deep thought about the report that had been sent back to him by the runner.

The Salamander Guards, a force usually dedicated to maintaining sentries around Salamandastron and providing local defence to the mountain itself, had travelled north under his orders along the coastline, crossing the mouth of the River Moss and continuing along the cliffs until they had reached Luke's Beach, a quiet corner of the Long Patrol's watch area that was local to a hedgehog tribe, who greeted them when they arrived. Guided by Chief Tombo, they found the burnt wreckage of a pirate galleon beached on the sand. Barely recognisable was the name of the ship, _Red Raider_, which was the same name of the ship abandoned by the sea rats discovered by the 10th Honour and Hunt. In several places along the hull of the ship were breach points: large holes punched into the side of the ship that seemed to burrow straight through the vessel's interior, in some cases creating holes that penetrated the entire width of the ship.

Onboard, they found very little. Either the crew had taken all of their loot with them as they made their escape, or it had been pinched by those that had attacked them – presumably the crew of the "fire ship". The report concluded by adding that they would stay with Chief Tombo and his tribe for a couple of more days to investigate further, and then they would venture home.

The feeling of angst felt by the general was quickly swept aside at the site of his own, one and only superior: Meledan, Badger Lord of Salamandastron. A tradition that was constant and never tiring was the presence of a badger at the mountain, to lead the force of hares at his or her command, a tradition that was so much more than just ancestral passage or writing on the wall; it was a destiny transcribed by a beast long forgotten upon the walls of the secret room that lay beyond the bed chambers of the Badger Lord. As part of an agreement of mutual trust between the two friends, upon arriving at Salamandastron at a young age Meledan had shown his close friend and confidant – at the time a captain – the secret chamber that he had discovered almost by chance upon entering his new quarters.

General Granden smiled upon seeing his old friend, but his features hardened once again when he saw the look of nervousness etched on Lord Meledan's great striped face.

'My lord?' he said. 'You look how I feel,' Granden added.

Meledan paused at seeing Bannox, his aging features crinkling into a grin. 'Oh, it's nothing Bannox,' he lied, a little too obviously. He changed the subject by eyeing the despatches report and remarking on it. 'News from the Salamander Guards?'

Bannox's mind returned anxiously to the topic that had previously occupied him, and handed Lord Meledan the report, outlining the specifics to him as briefly as he could whilst the badger flicked intensely through the pages.

'I'm sure it's nothing sah,' the hare concluded, saying it more for his own benefit than Meledan's. 'At least, nothing the old Long Patrol can't handle.'

'Still,' said Meledan slowly, still fingering the pages of the report, 'it's worth keeping an ear out for any more stories or reports concerning something like this.'

General Granden nodded dumbly, transfixed by the quiver in Meledan's voice. 'Are you quite all right sah?' he asked cautiously. Meledan seemed not to hear initially, and then looked at Granden as though coming out of a trance.

'Hmm? Oh, yes, absolutely.'

Still not believing the badger lord, Granden retrieved the report from his commander's large hands and saluted him officiously. 'Well, if it's all right with you sah, I'd like to go down to the cells and quiz the prisoners a tad further.'

'By all means,' said Meledan, granting his approval. 'I'm off to get a bite to eat.'

General Granden twirled curtly on his right footpaw, and walked smartly off towards the cells with the report tucked under one arm.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

The cells underneath Salamandastron sat on the sea side of the mountain, in a large cavern sectioned into four large areas by grey granite bricks, with a long corridor running between them. There were several large caverns similar to this one at the bottom of the mountain, each with a different use: larders, wine cellars, storerooms, armoury, and in the one directly below the mess hall, a foundry, the heat from which generated a natural warming system for the entire fortress, filtering up a chimney carved into the stone, finally emerging from the top of the mountain in a column of smoke. It had only been in the last few years, however, that it had been decided to include a permanent prison area in the fortress, by turning the final, bare cavern situated on the most western side of the foundations into a holding area. The four cells were quite large, and the entire area could hold over a hundred creatures.

The height of the cavern also allowed for greater observance of the prisoners. Where there were gaps in the walls for windows, wrought iron bars had been forged into the rock at the top of the cavern down to a good few feet below the floor surface. Around the back of the cells, however, a ledge ran around the entirety of the cave, a good three beasts' height away from the ground, protected from the possibility of escape use by spikes pointing downwards into the cells.

Alongside all these security precautions, two guards were always posted at the doorway, armed with javelins and a rapier buckled to their belts, and their paws not too far away from a small but effective bell that hung from the wall, whose ringing could be heard from the mess hall.

General Bannox Granden pulled the small door that closed the entrance open, and walked briskly inside, nodding curtly to the two guards as they checked the presence that had just emerged, coming to attention and saluting.

'General Granden!'

'Sah!'

Granden brought his footpaws together and returned their salutes, before he relaxed and gave them the order to stand easy. The two guards returned to their natural stance, and Granden walked off along the perimeter ledge to the left, heading for the far left cell.

Stopping above it, Granden looked down at the untidy band of sea rats that had taken up residence in the cell. Of the seven prisoners, two of them were sleeping on the mess of hay provided for a bed, one was licking clean the plates that had once borne the prisoners' food, and the other four were arguing in hushed voices.

'Well, if the captain finds us, youse can be the one to tell 'im we lost his loot!'

'If the captain finds us...? Listen, marshbrain, 'e's prob'ly lyin' at the bottom of the sea right now!'

'Finkle's got a point Kinny – 'oo actually saw the cap'n jump ship afore we did?'

'You know the cap! 'E's escaped worse...'e probably 'ad a boat we never knew about 'anging from the stern.'

'Idiot! 'Ow comes we never saw it, then?'

'Wot difference does it make? 'E'll never find us 'ere anyway, fishbrain!'

'Fishbrain yerself, yer measly...'

'Ahem!'

Granden had had quite enough of the bickering, and made himself known. All five heads of those not sleeping snapped upwards at the hare standing on the ledge above.

'Gentlebeasts,' he announced, although he was not certain how applicable his greeting was. 'I have good news, and I have bad news. Which would you chaps like to hear first?'

None of them answered, so the general continued anyway.

'The good news is that we've found your ship, _Red Raider_,' he said, rocking on his heels, his eyes skimming the document in his hand. 'The bad news is we found it on a beach. It was burnt to a cinder and abandoned.'

The five rats looked at one another wide eyed. After a couple of seconds of silence, the one called Kinny found his voice.

'There were no survivors?'

'None that we could see. And nobeasts have beached yet, so you're in luck.'

This drew a short whistle of relief from a couple of the prisoners. Granden tucked his report back underneath his arm.

'So, I would like to know a few things...' He had barely finished his sentence when the prisoners began hurling retorts.

'Do wot yer like, rabbit, youse ain't gettin' nuffin out of us!'

'Yeah, do yer worst!'

The noise of their fellow inmates immediately awoke the two that had been sleeping, and one, a fairly big, seasoned pirate, flung a small pebble at the nearest of his companions that was awake.

'Shurrup! I'm tryin' to get a bit of shuteye!'

To Granden's surprise, there was immediate silence. He stared at the big rat, who only had to turn his eyes forward from his lying position to see the hare standing at his elevated position.

'Oh, at last. Listen, 'are, yer couldn' put me in a differen' cell, cud yer? These planks are doin' me 'ead in!'

General Granden immediately understood the balance of power in the cell, and decided to direct his questioning towards this new symbol of authority amongst his prisoners.

'Sorry old bean, the place is packed,' he told him.

'Wotcha talkin' about? The place is empty part from us!'

'Well, I don't know what to tell you,' smirked Granden, before launching into his interrogation. 'What were you attacked by?'

'Wot?'

'Your ship. _Red Raider_. Who attacked you?'

'Gimme a separate cell and a decent meal an' I'll tell yer.'

Although it was rare, General Granden developing respect for vermin was not totally uncommon. Whilst he never liked them, he always found it refreshing to have a conversation with one that had principles. Granden marched back to the guards at the entrance to the prison cavern and retrieved the keys, ordering one of the guards to accompany him and the other to retrieve a hot plate of food from the mess. Granden walked down the central corridor to the cell, drawing his sword whilst ordering the other six rats to the back whilst he let the big rat out. The rat was then marched to the cell in the far corner of the cavern, where a roughly cut stone table was, with two chairs. He was kept locked in the cell alone until the meal was brought.

Ordering the two guards to keep watch outside the cell, Granden entered and placed the food in front of the rat, who started eating with the ferocity of one his own troops after a fortnight's march on half rations.

'So,' Granden started again, 'who attacked your ship?'

'Dunno,' said the rat. Granden grabbed the plate of food from under the rat's face and started heading for the door. 'Wait! Wait!'

Granden turned back to face the sea rat, still holding the plate in his hand, his eyebrows arched upwards awaiting a response. The sea rat sighed.

'Look, we'd never seen the ship before. It was at least three times as big as anythin' we'd ever battled against before,' he explained, before describing it. 'It had white sails, so we didn't fink it would be too 'ard a job to board it when we first saw it comin' over the horizon. Then, it got closer, and we realised that it mean' business. We tried to out sail it, but it was faster than us. Simple as that. Dunno how it did, considerin' it didn't have an oar bank.'

Granden retook his seat at the table, and handed the rat back his plate of food, and he continued to devour the rest of it.

'Did you?'

'Did we wot?'

'Have an oar bank?'

''Course. We was pushin' the slaves double time as well. We even 'ad crew fillin' in for the empty benches.'

Granden chose to ignore the fact that _Red Raider _was a slave ship – the burnt out slave pit in the hull had been mentioned in the report drawn up by the commander of the Salamander Guards. Despite this, no slaves had been found on board, but the general had other questions to ask first.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Warbit,' the rat replied, finishing off the remains of his potato-based dinner.

'Right, Warbit, tell me...how did you manage to turn your ship around and even attempt to outrun this mystery ship?'

'Oh, we didn't 'ave to turn 'round,' Warbit replied with a belch. 'It weren't coming straight for us. We was 'eaded for the Western Shore from the northwest, and they was comin' up from the southwest. Once they got within a couple hundred yards, they flew up their colours.'

'Skull and crossbones?'

'Nah...you gotta listen. Weren't black. It was blue, and had these lines along the left and top, that met in the top left corner. The thick centre one was red, then white, then a darker blue. It was like nuffin' I've ever sin before. Nobody goes to that much trouble designing an ensign.' Warbit tapped the table with his finger matter-of-factly, then folded his arms, waiting for Granden's next question.

'Then what happened?'

'Then it opened fire.'

'With what?'

'Dunno.'

The general's patience was wearing thin. He sat up straight, composing himself, which sent a clear message to his prisoner about the state of his mood.

'Look,' said Warbit, leaning forward, 'it opened up several windows on its hull. We thought it was gonna drop oars, but instead these weird black things emerged, pointing righ' at us. Then, we 'eard this sound, like somebody shouting an order, and these black things just...well, I dunno. Like...sorta...fire. But it wasn't though. As soon as it did...the thing...we felt something hit the ship, like a high wave, but, several of 'em. It was weird.'

'Had you hoisted your own colours?'

''Course. Cap'n Dartag was an 'onourable pirate.'

Granden snorted with laughter. 'Well, that didn't sound right at all. An honourable pirate, indeed,' he muttered. 'Anyway, when did you and your lackeys make your escape?'

Warbit continued. 'Well, the ship drew nearer, keepin' itself steady, until it got within a few yards off our starboard. Then, these creatures appeared, decked out in fancy clothin' – like a...like a uniform, like you 'ares. It was like a red shirt, with a white sash, and they was 'olding these weird, black weapons, which they aimed at us. Afore we could swing across to board, these black weapons did the weird thing – like those other things that they 'ad – and managed to kill a whole load o' the crew. Once they'd done that a few times, they lowered the gangways.'

Granden was so intrigued by Warbit's story that he hardly noticed how wide eyed his expression was, or how much attention he was paying to the sea rat's broken dialect, or even that his mouth was agape.

'That's when me and the rest of 'em back there decided to make a break for it. We lowered the port side longboat and made a dash for it to the coast. That's when we bumped into your lot.'

Granden rearranged his body's position, pulling his back straight again and resting his locked paws on the table. Now that he had got the story out of the way, he wanted to clear up some of the finer details.

'The creatures on the opposing ship. What were they?'

'Otters mostly. Thought I saw a couple of stoats though. And there was another otter standin' to the stern, wearin' a blue shirt instead of a red 'un. 'E was the one givin' the orders, prob'ly the cap'n.'

'Stoats? With otters?'

'Aye, that's wot I said.'

Granden took a moment to imagine that unlikely scenario, and then his eyes darted back to Warbit. 'What was the ship like? Describe it to me in more detail.'

'Wot can I tell yer? Erm, well, whoever owned it took care of it. The wood had been varnished to give it a brigh'er look, and had painted black strakes running along its sides, and all manner of designs at the bow and stern. 'Ad a figurehead too – it was a wooden carvin' of a badger. As for the sails, well, it 'ad three masts, all square rigged, and the aft mast had a gaff-rigged sail over its stern. Then, on its bow, it had four jib sails. I've seen fully rigged ships before, but none of 'em were that big.'

'You didn't catch the name plate?'

'_Intrepid_.'

General Granden returned from the cells with a weight on his mind, along with his report, now with some additional information scribbled on the back of it. Warbit had obligingly drawn Granden a rough sketch of the ship, in all its full-rigged glory, even including a poor representation of a badger on its stem and the nameplate with the word "Intrepid" crudely printed on it. Atop the mast amidships was a crow's nest with a square flag rigged to it, providing Granden with an illustration of the flag Warbit had attempted to explain earlier.

Granden didn't know what unnerved him most about the ship. Its mysterious origins, the strange fire-like objects pitifully described to him, or the fact that it was crewed by otters and stoats working alongside.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

As General Bannox Granden pondered the meaning of the mysterious ship, one of its victims stirred.

The fox Captain Gibb Dartag, formerly of the _Red Raider_, felt some feeling return to his limbs as he awoke from his unconsciousness to realise his situation. When the invading troops from the enemy ship lowered the gangplanks, and it had become clear to Dartag that all was lost, he had put his contingency plan into operation. Where his cabin overhung the stern of his ship, a longboat had been sneakily hidden underneath. Opening a hatch in the floor of his cabin, Dartag had clambered down into the longboat and lowered himself carefully into the water using an incredibly simple pulley system.

_Always have a Plan B_, Dartag had thought as he had done so, reminding himself of his personal motto. Once in the water, he had started to paddle away from the ship, cutting across the stern of the enemy vessel, and south.

Unfortunately, he had been spotted by one of the enemy crewmembers. He knew this as he heard several loud bangs that sounded remarkably like those odd weapons they wielded, and there were several splashes in the water around him. Moving as far up to the bow of the longboat as he could, Dartag continued to paddle boisterously with the single oar he had provided for himself, when all of a sudden another bang had caused him to feel a slight wind brush past his ear, and in a moment of sheer instinct had automatically ducked his head sharply to avoid contact with what could have been an arrow, only to hit his head on the hard wood of the bow, knocking him out cold.

Coming to, Gibb Dartag touched his forehead with his paw, feeling the small trickle of blood emerging from the wound. Tearing a long piece of garment from his tunic, he wrapped it around his head in a make-shift bandage, and once again picked up the oar. He could feel the tide slowly pushing him towards his port bow, suggesting that that was where the coast was – in the dark, it was difficult to tell where exactly he was.

Digging his oar into the water, alternating his strokes from his left to his right, he squinted his eyes to try and get a better look at where he was headed. It took some time, but he eventually noticed the faint outline of the shore.

Spurred on, Dartag doubled his stroke, until he felt the bow of his personal longboat hit the sand, and then he leapt up out of the vessel and jumped into the shallows, hauling his little boat up onto the beach. Once he was sure it was in a safe position, he peered inside the hull and felt about around the bulkhead near the stern, until his paw hit what he was looking for.

It was two items that were particularly special. Hauled from a port raid a dozen or so days ago, he'd acquired the items from a mouse dressed in rather regal attire and protected by a small guard of equally impressively dressed otters, weasels and stoats. Gibb Dartag had seen them whilst in port at Sampetra, and they appeared to be on some sort of diplomatic mission to the king, but Dartag's political anonymity meant he couldn't care less. As the party had made their way back to the north of the island, presumably where their ship was berthed, Dartag and his crew had ambushed them, killing the three otters, two of the stoats and one weasel straight away. Two female squirrels accompanying the mouse ran away, young and obviously scared, but the mouse and the remaining two weasels put up an amazing fight. Eventually they fell, but not until they'd taken a dozen or so of Dartag's pirates with them. The plundering captain nabbed the box the mouse had been carrying and his elegant sword, as well as some other pieces of finery found with the others, and kept it to himself, stashing it onboard his hidden longboat as soon as he had got back to the _Red Raider_.

The sword was magnificent. Dartag carefully drew it from its dark green, leather-bound scabbard, and admired the beauty of the gleaning blade and its cross hilt, also bound with a dark green leather and silver lines etched along its horizontal crossguard, its pommel also with a rounded silver bobble; even the rain guard that had been beautifully fashioned around the base of the blade. It was magnificent, and worthy of royalty. Dartag swung the sword about expertly, testing its grip and balance, before deciding to turn his attention towards the box.

It was a similar design to the hilt; a small box with embellished, silver horizontal lines running down its sides with a dark green material fitted between the gaps. The lid of the box was locked securely shut with a padlock, and Dartag had been unable to retrieve the key from the dead mouse. He'd already tried breaking the lock with his sword back on the _Red Raider_, but the result was nothing but a few deft scratches on the padlock.

Gibb Dartag pulled angrily at the lock, before hefting it under one shoulder and swinging the sword onto his back with its scabbard's belt. Grabbing the small haversack of food that he had managed to grab from his personal stock back on his ship, Dartag set off across the dark beach for more bearable climes.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Three days after the extraordinary events on the Western Shore, a fresh, seasonal sun rose over the woodland trees of Mossflower Wood. Its light burst through treetops filled with young leaves and flowers, its light glinting off a slowly ebbing River Moss, slowly rising across the country until it hit the spires of Redwall Abbey, its light shimmering off the weathervane on the south gable, illuminating the tips of the sandstone sanctuary, down to where the shadow of the eastern wall still shrouded the courtyards and paddocks kept within its walls.

Abbot Peromus always made it a habit to be the first to rise, and today was no exception. From his quarters, he always made sure he kept one slat of his window slightly open to allow for sunlight to bounce through and off the carefully placed hand mirror on the window sill, reflecting off this to land on the head of the old abbot. It usually took no more than a few seconds for Peromus to feel the heat from the sunlight, and he would then wake immediately.

Springing out of bed in a manner most inappropriate for a mouse his age, Peromus adjusted his glasses on his nose, slipped quickly into his sandals that sat by the door, and slipped out and down the stairs, heading for the grounds.

Outside, he rushed over to a flower patch located partially underneath the battlements covering the north wall, and was delighted to see that life was beginning to show itself in the otherwise relatively empty mound of soil. He had not expected anything to grow quite so quickly at the turn of spring, but there it was, the rising stalk of a geranium rising out of the ground.

'Foremole will be pleased,' Abbot Peromus said to himself, smiling. It had been the chief mole that had helped the Abbot acquire the best soil for his own little garden, as well as collect the cuttings for the odd selection of flowers that were to be grown there. Although old, Peromus was still young in relation to his position, as Abbess Martha had passed away just this past winter, and he was eager to use the coming spring for a pet project he had longed to have.

After spending a short time in silent admiration of his flower patch, Abbot Peromus made his way back inside to change out of his bed clothes and prepare for breakfast. As he climbed the stairs back to his quarters, the rest of the abbey seemed to be coming alive, with some of the brothers and sisters making their way down to the kitchens from their dormitories, and a handful of the abbey dwellers also emerging from their own sleeping chambers.

Breakfast was, as always at Redwall Abbey, a splendid affair. Oatmeal and scones, teacakes and freshly baked bread, supplemented by all variations of condiments, from honey, to marmalade, to an assortment of jams from raspberry to blueberry to strawberry. Beverages included hot mint or herbal tea, or even fresh orange or apple juice, favourites amongst the young Abbey babes, otherwise known as the Dibbuns, at any time of day. They would often pinch the jugs from the top of the tables down in Cavern Hole where breakfast was traditionally served, and hide under the tables in their makeshift, white-walled fortresses. Abbot Peromus, who was also still partial to fresh apple juice in the morning, would sometimes crawl underneath the table himself to retrieve a jug, and often stay there, reliving his youth with the obliging youngsters, much to the disapproval of his peers.

'Abbot Peromus!' Sister Bula exclaimed, lifting the table cloth to find her venerable Father Abbot sitting cross-legged in a circle with several of the Dibbuns making funny faces. 'What on earth are you doing?'

Abbot Peromus turned to look at Bula with a rather disgusting look on his face, his lip curled up over his top lip and his brow furrowed intently – he had been halfway through devising his latest silly face when Sister Bula had caught him in the act. He quickly disassembled his odd facial expression and grinned at the otter, who managed to suppress the rising laughter in her gut.

'Father Abbot Peromus Manculus,' Sister Bula said sternly, 'remove yourself from under this table and for the love of Martin eat your breakfast like a civilised creature!'

The old mouse crawled out from underneath the table and retook his position in his large Abbot's chair at one end of the table. He reached out with his paw for the nearest plate to him and took a scone, slapping on top of it an unhealthy amount of cream and strawberry jam, and nibbled away at it whilst he roved his eyes about the room, taking in the sights and sounds of his Redwall companions.

Aside from himself, perhaps the most dominating figure in the room was a creature many times his size, who seemed to carry the heavier burden of looking after the many cumbersome Dibbuns that dwelt at Redwall Abbey. Vera Saxonos, the old badger mother, sat only a few seats down the table to Abbot Peromus' left, eating absent-mindedly whilst trying to control an unruly young hedgehog and an equally frustrating and playful kitt otter. It was quite different from when she used to be Lady Saxonos, the badger ruler of Salamandastron many years ago, though, she would probably not agree.

'Rogg, sit still you little beast!' she called out to the otter, as he somersaulted off the table, wooden sword in hand, pretending to fight off imaginary hordes of evil. He was quickly joined by his unlikely cohort in mischief, Zack, the unruly hedgehog whose ambition was to become an otter when he grew up.

'Back, vermin, or I cut offa yore tails!' Rogg declared to the other Dibbuns, who were unaware they were part of his roleplay.

'An' then we'll roas' 'em an' feed 'em to you!' Zack joined in, holding two wooden spoons as if they were a pair of fighting knives.

There was silence amongst the Dibbuns, until finally a young mouse maid burst out crying, prompting the rest to follow suit, leaving Rogg and Zack looking rather put out. However, before Mother Vera could grab them for scolding, they were off, bounding across the floor and up the stairs out of Cavern Hole.

Abbot Peromus chuckled quietly to himself as Mother Vera shouted all manner of punishments after the mischievous pair. She then moved around the table and allowed the crying Dibbuns to cuddle up to her soft fur, comforting them. The Abbot was then distracted by the tapping of a squirrel's paw on his shoulder. It was Brother Arden, an oft pensive and rigorous individual who was, amongst other things, the abbey scribe. The post also came with the responsibility of keeping Abbot Peromus apprised of news involving scheduled visits, notably from the Long Patrol units that patrolled the Cross-Woodland Path.

'Father Abbot, we will be expecting the Long Patrol around lunchtime,' he said. 'Should we begin preparations for their Great Eating-Us-Out-Of-House-And-Home as soon as breakfast is cleared?'

Peromus laughed at Arden's glib remark. 'Oh, Arden, lighten up,' he giggled, 'they come every year! And our larders have always been well stocked when they've left again.'

'Abbot, they're bringing a regiment!' Brother Arden insisted, 'that's six hundred hares that have been on ration for the past three or four days! We've never had to cope with a regiment before! Aye, we had a battalion visit at the end of the autumn, and it wasn't so bad, but this is a regiment, Father! A regiment! Three whole battalions fit into a regiment! We'll have enough difficulty fitting them inside the outer walls!'

Abbot Peromus' giggling had not abated, and instead had turned into a rather heartier laugh at the sound of his fretting scribe, who, incidentally, was not in the slightest bit amused.

'It is not a laughing matter, Father.'

'Oh, I would beg to differ!' Peromus said, wiping away the tears, before becoming a little more serious for the benefit of Brother Arden's worrying mind. 'Look brother, if it will put your mind at any ease, I have asked the Shrew Unions and the Otter Clans to lend a paw in the preparations for this season's visit, and they have kindly obliged, especially the otters. You know how partial they are to company with the hares, and how much of a taste the hares have for their famous skilly'n'duff. Skipper Yeola is even sailing the _Bowler Beech _down to carry the supplies from Camp Parley.'

'And the shrews?' Arden asked.

'Log-a-Log Henny and Log-a-Log Sturrock have said they will arrive shortly after breakfast. Henny will be at the Moss Sling shortly, and Sturrock is bringing his supplies up by the Cross-Woodland Path,' Peromus smiled again, affected by the sweet concern shown by Brother Arden, and patted his arm reassuringly.

Once breakfast had come to a close, all the elder Abbey dwellers assisted in clearing and washing the dishes from Cavern Hole, and then had a quick midmorning rest before the knocking on the front gate signalled the start of the huge preparations to be made for the patrolling hares.

The booming made by the large hollow oak trunk situated just outside the front gate set Brother Arden on his feet, and Mother Vera and he dashed over to the large, heavy west entrance and together pulled it open, revealing the forty-so strong tribe of Log-a-Log Sturrock, to each eight of his shrews a hollowed ash log longboat, filled with baskets and sacks of supplies ready to be turned into fantastic meals. As Mother Vera and Sister Bula traversed lawns around the abbey building to watch for Log-a-Log Henny's band of Guosim, that is, the Guerrilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower, at the east gate, Brother Arden showed Log-a-Log Sturrock and his tribe, known as the Guossom or Guerrilla Union of South Stream Shrews of Mossflower, to the kitchens.

It wasn't long after Log-a-Log Sturrock's arrival that the Guosim banner could be seen through the trees of Mossflower Wood on Redwall's eastern side. Led by Log-a-Log Henny, her crew was carrying oak log longboats in a similar fashion to the Guossom, though, with eight shrews to six longboats, Log-a-Log Henny was really showing her tribe's dedication to the event.

'Aye, the whole tribe's here,' Log-a-Log Henny nodded in answer to Sister Bula's question. 'We've got nothin' to worry about along the ol' River Moss for the time bein', so we though' we'd make a day of it!'

They too were shown to the kitchen, whilst Mother Vera stayed on watch at the open east gate for the Otter Clan, who did not waste time. Still with plenty of steps of the sun to the arrival of the 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment, Skipper Yeola emerged from the tree line at the head of her score of otters, each one of them lugging a haversack, and carrying large stretchers between them, each laden with sacks of fresh and stored shrimp, oysters and sardines. They marched into the walls of Redwall Abbey, raising a smell of salt and river water as they trudged around to the kitchen on the other side of the building.

Such was the scale of the project that was occurring for the sake of the Long Patrol's visit, that as soon as the otters arrived in the kitchens they were whisked outside again, and ordered to prepare their food out on the lawn in the southwest corner of the grounds. This was mainly because they could not fit in the already overcrowded kitchens, which had been filled to the brim with both Redwall, Guosim and Guossom cooks. The otters didn't mind in the slightest, considering that the day was lovely and sunny, and that they were more used to preparing food out in the open.

The scene was an immense but incredibly fascinating one, a pleasure for the eyes and the nose. In the kitchens, shrew cooks prepared fruit pies and flans, tarts and cakes, whilst the Redwall chefs cooked pastries and pasties, helped by skilled moles who had set themselves the task of creating perhaps one of the largest turnip'n'tater deeper'n'ever pies. Then, out on the lawn, it was a completely different story. Otters were teeming about between hot stoves and barbecue-like rigs, where their famously hot and spicy shrimp'n'hotroot soup was being boiled, along with fried sardines and oysters being prepared for appetisers, along with their famous skilly'n'duff. Seasonal traditions for food were practically out of the window, as each of the tribes involved in the cooking process sought to outdo each other at their most famous recipes.

Abbot Peromus found the smells so overpowering that he had forced himself away to prevent any accidental pie-pinching. He was about to make his way over to the gardens on the north wall, wondering when the hares would descend, when as if by magic Brother Caldo, another elderly mouse like himself who had been keeping watch on the north west battlements, shouted out across the grounds as loud as his frail little voice could carry, 'they're here!'

Mother Vera, who had been trying to keep the Dibbuns away from the otters' camp, immediately rushed to the front gates, leaving control of the Dibbuns in the hands of the Father Abbot, Sister Bula and Brother Arden, who played with them knowing that as soon as the Long Patrol hares marched in through the gates fascination would shift from the food to the uniformed army.

The gates were hauled open by Mother Vera, revealing the grinning Colonel Windscut, keeping his regiment marching on the spot until the gates were open as wide as they could go, at which point he ordered the march onto the front lawn of the abbey, where he assembled his huge force of six hundred hares, in a magnificent trooping of the colours, with banners for each of the companies fluttering in the calm spring wind. Colonel Windscut formed the 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment into seven squares, representing the six battle companies in his command and the seventh headquarters company of which he was directly a part.

Abbot Peromus took up pride of place on the steps before the front door of the abbey building, folding his paws into his long, wide sleeves, looking reverently through his glasses down at Colonel Windscut, who marched up to the abbot and gave him a sweeping salute.

'Long Patrol hares of the 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment, at your service!' he announced. 'We come with the deepest gratitude of all the companies, guard platoons and border patrols of the Long Patrol, and all those that reside at Salamandastron! My lord, Lord Meledan Saxonos of the Mountain of the Fire Lizard, sends his deepest regards along with this contingent.'

Colonel Windscut brought his paw back down to his side.

'I welcome you, Colonel Blake Windscut, and the Long Patrol hares of the 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment, to Redwall Abbey,' Abbot Peromus proclaimed formally. The Colonel spun to face his regimental troops.

'Troops! Give it the belter, chaps!'

'REDWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!'


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Lunch was a splendid affair. Brother Arden's fears about the hungry mouths of six hundred hares thankfully did not come true, as they all ate rather respectfully given the huge variety of choice afforded to them. Whilst they all undoubtedly went back for seconds, there was more than enough food to go around, even though by the time the sun started to create a yard-long shadow on the abbey's east side all the food that had been cooked had been eaten. It had also been a rather casual occasion; whilst the older inhabitants of Redwall Abbey and the tribal leaders took their meals inside to the Great Hall, many stayed outside, collecting their food straight from the kitchen windows and the tables laid out by the otters and then eating it on the lawns.

Abbot Peromus and Colonel Windscut had sat down in the Great Hall at the head of the long central table, with other beasts such as Mother Vera, Brothers Arden and Caldo, Skipper of Otters, the two Log-a-Logs, and a handful of the colonel's regimental officers.

'So Colonel, any news from our friends at Salamandastron?' the abbot enquired.

Colonel Windscut took a mouthful of his piece of leek flan. 'Hmm, indeed.'

The Abbot waited for him to swallow.

'Hlmph! Ahem, well, I do have a few matters of business to discuss on behalf of Lord Meledan,' said the colonel. 'Y'see, he's gettin' rather flustered these days.'

Vera Saxonos looked up from her pasty. 'Flustered?'

'Hmm,' the Colonel nodded, 'and none of us are entirely certain of what it is. There have been certain events in the past few days that may cause some concern, but your son, marm, is showing signs of a very worried beast indeed.'

'How so?' pressed Abbot Peromus.

'Well, he's acting rather strange. Spends a lot of time in his bed chambers these days, eats there now too. None of us know what he's doing up there, but we're all rather concerned. And it seems to have got worse recently,' the Colonel paused for another bite of the flan. 'On our way up the northern shore, we encountered a jolly boat loaded with sea rats that had abandoned their vessel out to sea, after being attacked by another vessel. None of them knew what the vessel was, except that it was much larger than theirs and created some kind of strange fire. We sent the rats back to the old mountain, and when the squad I sent returned they...well, Jeffers, you tell the story.'

All eyes roamed across to a hare dressed in a sergeant's uniform.

'Once we'd relayed the story back to Lord Meledan, he went very quiet and simply ordered us to lock the sea rats up in the cells, an order that we'd already been given by General Granden anyway,' he explained. 'Then he went padding back up to his chamber, with this odd faraway look in his eyes. If you'll pardon me, marm, he looked a darn sight worse for wear. He's been like it all season, fretting about something that he won't share with anyone else. Even old Granden seems to be in the dark.'

'Badgers are fated creatures,' said the Abbot sagely. 'In my experience, a badger's worries often stay a badger's worries.'

Mother Vera nodded in agreement. 'I'm sure it's just Mel acting up.'

'Marm, I've known your Meledan since he was a nipper,' said Windscut, 'and I've known him acting up. I'll tell you now, he's definitely not acting up. This is something important. Ever since our last visit here, he's been more and more concerned about the safety and protection of things. Our patrols are constantly abroad, with barely a few weeks rest bite. He's been sending gallopers left, right and centre to discuss the possibility of having our nearest allies move closer to the mountain where they can be watched over.'

'Now, that doesn't sound like my Mel,' Vera shook her head, worry lines now appearing on her face.

'Wot do yer reckon it is that's got him so spooked?' piped up Skipper Yeola.

'Who knows, marm,' responded Sergeant Jeffers.

'Even wanted to build a regimental base camp near Redwall, wot?' Windscut scoffed.

Suddenly, all eyes, wide in disbelief, were on the colonel, who looked up from his food sheepishly.

'I say, you chaps, what're you giving me that look for?'

The Abbot could barely find the words. 'He...he wanted to...what?'

'I ain't pullin' your leg, your grace,' he said. 'At the last Senior Staff meeting he was outlining defence plans for Redwall Abbey. I tell you what, General Bannox Granden and I exchanged a few odd looks that day, wot? Aye, he was suggesting we build some sort of military encampment in the woods not far north of the abbey walls, manned by the 12th Stalwarts, in case the abbey ever got attacked. The General and I managed to bargain him down though.'

Abbot Polemus leaned forward. 'Bargain him down? To what?'

'Beacons,' spluttered Colonel Windscut between sips of Bardon's Cider. 'He was gettin' pretty upset about us not going along with his plan, so we compromised. We suggested that a network of beacons be constructed between Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron, set atop towers built in Mossflower Woods and the flatlands, and up in the mountains that guard the view from the shore.

'The idea behind it is that if ever Redwall required the assistance of the Long Patrol, namely, it was under attack, it would simply have to light its beacon located on its roof, and then the hares stationed at each tower would light their beacon, creating an emergency signal that would take seconds to reach us, instead of dispatching a runner to retrieve troops.'

'Even that sounds a bit extreme,' said Log-a-Log Henny. 'Lord Meledan seems to be preparing Mossflower for open warfare!'

Brother Arden nodded in agreement. 'There haven't been vermin armies wandering abroad in Mossflower Country for generations,' he insisted. 'And I can't say I'm expecting to see any vermin hordes hove into view over the horizon any time soon.'

'Hmm,' hummed Abbot Polemus in agreement, his paw reaching up to stroke his chin thoughtfully. 'Now I think about it, Arden's quite right. We've not heard of any attacks – no matter how small – in Mossflower Country or the surrounding lands in, well, generations. The last time I ever saw a creature classed as vermin,' he looked pointedly at Colonel Windscut, showing his disapproval of the term, 'was many seasons ago, when that ferret came to stay at the Abbey for a few days.'

Vera thought back to the time. 'Yes, Unab, I remember him. Barely said a word all the time he was here, choosing to read books from the library out by the pond with you, Brother Arden.'

'Taught the poor beast to read and write,' said Arden. 'After eleven days, when he'd got the general gist, he upped and left.'

Log-a-Log Sturrock had been in deep thought through the whole conversation, listening and taking onboard everything the creatures around the table had said. Now, he decided to voice his mind.

'Which begs the question,' he began slowly, 'where have they all gone? Look at Elmlow, a village of good-hearted creatures who've been able to live in peace for many seasons – you must remember visiting there as a brother, Father Abbot.'

'Yes, a lovely little community of woodlanders,' said the Abbot.

'Never had a threat made to them in all the years they've been established,' said Log-a-Log Sturrock, spreading his arms wide theatrically. 'They've even got boats that make regular trips to the island, and the village is more of a town now. Guossom often visit there to have weapons forged.'

His shrew companion in the north nodded. 'My shrews often visit the hedgehog tribes that live on the high cliffs of Luke's Beach, and they sometimes receive travellers from Noonvale, which also knows of a small village settling on the eastern shores, near to the old castle ruins.'

'The population of good beasts in Mossflower has never been higher, and I'll wager it's because of this long peace we've been enjoying,' said Log-a-Log Sturrock, chiming back in. 'But I cannot believe this is simply good luck, or the effectiveness of the presence of Redwall Abbey or Salamandastron. To evil beasts, this would merely make them more wanting prizes.'

'He's right,' said the Skipper of Otters, 'I'd bet my boat on the fact that something's brewing. I'll wager that's what's got yore old badger lord in a tizzy.'

The assembly all grumbled and nodded, concurring with the conclusion drawn by Skipper Yeola and Log-a-Log Sturrock, except Abbot Peromus and Mother Vera.

'It is depressing to hear such pessimism from beasts with such warm hearts!' he cried, throwing his paws in the air. Mother Vera laughed.

'Mel is not one to worry about events with probable occurrence,' she implored, 'he's one that deals with the present.'

'Besides, why make a mountain out of a molehill?' said Abbot Peromus. 'Let us enjoy this peaceful time, and hope that it marks the end to senseless war. Colonel Windscut, I approve of the beacon system, but only in the hope that more settlements like Elmlow spring from their presence. Redwallers will assist in their construction, and any of the other tribes that may wish to participate. Perhaps this system could be a way of improving communication with Salamandastron, and not just as a warning signal.'

They all finished eating, and cleared their plates, taking them back to the kitchen to be washed, and then they stepped outside where they sat down to listen to a small collection of Redwallers banging small drums and playing flutes, accompanying a pretty young squirrel maid singing.

'Deep beneath the treeline,

Showered in the rays of sun, that brighten my wide eyes,

I'll watch you as you hear me sigh,

Try to explain why you must go, cover your tracks with a lie.

High above the hilltop,

Keeping in step with your old friends, and stepping outside of the light,

I'll watch from here as you wave goodbye,

Hear myself wish you safely home, uncertain of why you must fight.'

The song finished with a flurry of skilled flutists expertly playing their instruments, and all the creatures gathered out on the lawn burst out into clapping and cheering, some of them even shedding a tear to the sad song, a fairly old but very famous composition written by a young mouse maid many years ago who watched her father march off to war.

Once the applause had died down and the tears had been shed, the creatures lounged out a little longer whilst the band continued to play a variety of instrumental pieces. Some of the Dibbuns played tag and hide and seek, with some of the older creatures joining in, whilst the rest conversed idly, others sharing stories from Salamandastron, Redwall Abbey or Mossflower's great waterways.

As evening drew on, Colonel Windscut decided it was time for his regiment to say their goodbyes. Abbot Peromus offered them to stay, but Windscut declined the suggestion.

'My dear Abbot, where would they sleep?' he laughed. 'Redwall Abbey may be big, but it's not big enough to bed six hundred hares! We've got enough tents. We'll accompany Log-a-Log Sturrock back down to the banks of the South Stream, and then camp by the water's edge.'

Windscut organised his troops whilst Log-a-Log Sturrock had his shrews cleared up their things in the kitchen and prepared to move out with the Long Patrol. Once they were ready, Sturrock and his shrews, marching with the weight of five logboats, led the 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment off down the Cross-Woodland Path south towards the South Stream, the sound of Redwallers shouting final farewells after them.

'Goodbye! Have a good journey!'

'We'll see you at the summer expedition!'

'Don't march too far on those full stomachs! You'll get an ache!'

Once the hares and the shrews were out of sight, Skipper Yeola and Log-a-Log Henny also packed up and left, to a similar fanfare. Once Redwall was full of nought but those that lived there, they all set about their chores of cleaning the kitchens and bathing and bedding the Dibbuns, until they were all rightly tired, sending themselves all to bed early.

Brother Arden was relieved to finally be done with his kitchen chores and finding himself walking doggedly over to the Gatehouse, and towards his bed. Once there, he lay down and fell asleep still in his normal clothes, but this was not for long.

Along with most of the abbey who were still only just drifting off to sleep, Arden was awoken by the familiar booming sound of the hollow oak log outside the front gate, and almost fell out of his bed. Scrambling to his feet, Arden muttered gloomily under his breath at being awoken so abruptly.

'Probably those walloping hares,' he cursed. 'Probably forgotten a javelin or a couple of arrows or something...'

Arden pulled the rope that assisted him in the removal of the iron bar that crossed the doors whenever Mother Vera was not about, all to the sound of the booming oak log, which had resumed its knocking frustratedly.

'I'm coming! I'm coming!'

With a deep grunt, he pulled open the great heavy door enough to allow him a cautious look outside. Instead of a hare, he found himself confronted with a rather odd looking creature. Surprised, he chanced a look behind into the abbey grounds, to thankfully see the large silhouette of Vera Saxonos striding purposefully across the front lawn. He turned back to look outside the gates at the creature standing before him.

Decked out in a dark red tunic and green and black short trousers, the forlorn looking fox also had a haversack slung across his back, alongside a sword whose scabbard had been loosely thrown over one shoulder. Around his waist, he had another curved sabre tucked into his belt. He cut a rather nasty image, and Arden hesitated as to whether he should allow the creature into the grounds. Luckily, Vera appeared.

'What's Windscut forgotten this t...'

Catching the sight of the fox, who, whilst a little bemused by the appearance of the squirrel, was taken aback at the sight of the ancient badger, Mother Vera stopped talking in the middle of her sentence and, caught in a restless mood, transferred it into her less-than-helpful greeting.

'Who are you?'

The fox, recovering from the sight of the badger, bowed low. 'Greetings, mateys, I am Cap'n Gibb Dartag, formerly of the 'onourable sailin' vessel, _Red Raider_. Alas, my ship is sunk, an' I 'ave travelled inland, to seek shelter.' He paused. 'An' a 'ot meal.'

Brother Arden looked up at Mother Vera, as she looked down, passing each other an odd look. Although tired, they suddenly remembered themselves and their commitment to the building in which they resided, and threw open the front gate.

'Welcome, Captain Gibb Dartag, to Redwall Abbey,' said Brother Arden, 'or, should I now say, Mr Dartag?'

'Aye,' said Dartag heavily, walking into the grounds, ''tis true, me old boat now gone to the bottom o' the ocean. But, though my ship is gone, I still feel the cap'n inside of me, yearnin' to take up the mantle of command once again.' He stopped and looked at the confused pair of creatures that had let him in. 'For now though, I'll settle for the command of yore larder, if it ain't too much trouble?'

Brother Arden laughed, whilst Mother Vera simply eyed him with suspicion. 'Hmm, well, whilst this abbey is a place of sanctuary for all creatures, Captain Dartag, it is a peaceful place, and we do not allow creatures to bear arms inside.'

Without a second's hesitation, Dartag drew his sabre and placed it graciously on the ground at Vera Saxonos' footpaws. Vera folded her arms and flicked her eyes at the broadsword slung across his back. 'And that one.'

Dartag was clever enough not to argue with the badger mother, but lifted the sword off his back by the belt with a reluctant sigh. He placed the sword in its dark green scabbard alongside his personal sabre, and stood back up again. Brother Arden collected the two swords and tucked them under his arms.

'Right,' said the squirrel, 'shall we take you to the kitchens and see what we can rustle up?'

The depressive look Gibb Dartag wore upon having to give up his glamorous prize sword was quickly lifted at the sound of food. 'Now that's an idea! Just out of interest, where'll you be storing me ole fighting sticks?'

'Somewhere where nobeast will steal them,' said Brother Arden cryptically.

They wandered off towards the kitchens, Mother Vera following them, staring anxiously at the back of the former fox captain.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Lord Meledan watched from his balcony high on the slopes of Salamandastron facing north as the rains that had come and gone during the winter abated for the last time, the final raindrops of the last light shower that had hit the coast dripping resignedly on the small ledge, inches away from the badger lord's resting forepaws, his great hulk leaning over the wooden banister that faced northwest. Meledan stretched out one of his great paws to test the weather, and when he felt no more water falling, he set about taking down the rigging that provided shelter on his chamber's balcony during wet weather.

He entered his room and set the canvas and its attached wooden poles down near to the doorway, heaving shut the wooden door. He stared forlornly around his chambers, through the three open spaces that formed his office, a small personal library and his bedroom. Sighing heavily, he wandered over to the large desk in his office space to the left, which also led to the doors out of his chambers and into the rest of the mountain.

Setting himself down in his chair, he stared at the piece of paper lain flat on the desk top with sad eyes. Wishing it not to be true, he read through the report once more.

_Salamander Guards Assignment Report, Beached "Red Raider"_

_Continued from first report: The vessel appears to be little more than the size of a slave galleon, with two banks of oar ports. There are little sign of the masts save for the three stumps where they would have been, possibly destroyed during battle. Crew quarters are empty save for simple furnishings, items too big to be salvaged or pillaged. The captain's quarters tell a similar story, stripped bare of most the finer furnishings that may have once hung in them, though there were a couple of oddities about the cabin that drew interest. First is the trapdoor located just behind the desk that looks down over the stern, and secondly what appears to be a slacked-off pulley system. It is believed that this was for the purposes of escape, and the fact that it has been used suggests that this was the escape route used by the prisoners._

What the commander of the Guards didn't know, of course, was that the prisoner known as Warbit had already confessed about using a longboat deployed off the port side, suggesting that it was somebody else that had used the escape hatch in the captain's quarters. The captain maybe?

_On the hull, it is clear that the unusual breach points were made high above the waterline, hence the reason why the ship had not sunk. However, the strangest point to be made about these breaches is that there seems to have been an obvious attempt not to hit too far down the hull: whilst a few of the holes are made further down the ship's bulk, and the projectile would have hit the slave pits, most of the breaches occur further up, where the crew quarters and store cabins were located, and on the deck itself. Inside, there are several broken oars and chains that appear to have been slashed by axes._

Axes were rare in pirates and corsairs. Heavy weapons were not favoured by sailors, as they were difficult to handle in the unstable conditions experienced on the high seas, which suggested that the crew of the opposing ship were the ones that cut through the slave chains, and that it seemed to be common practice for whoever these creatures were.

Whilst Meledan was not worried about the good nature of the creatures, he was worried about their origins. He shuffled through the various sheets of paper on his desk until he found the single sheet from the first report that had Warbit's crude sketch on the back of it. From all the information that had been gathered from both the prisoners and the Salamander Guards' investigation, the "fire ship" was not the only one of its kind. The co-operation that General Granden had continued to receive from Warbit, who had been first mate aboard the _Red Raider_, was providing invaluable to building a grander picture about the mysterious vessel, and it had been Warbit's conclusion that the ship couldn't have been the only one of its type: the flag it flew, the uniforms of the crewmembers, the "ROS" prefix to its name, and, most importantly, the pennant painted on the hull at the starboard stern: P-06.

Meledan looked at his right forepaw, shocked to find it shaking uncontrollably.

'No,' he suddenly said resolutely, clutching it with his left. 'The mountain will not fall.' He considered this statement for a moment, and then cleared his desk with a swipe of his arm whilst letting aloud a roar of indignation.

'D'you hear me, fate?' he bellowed at the top of his voice. 'Salamandastron will stand forever! We will not go quietly into the darkness! If this is to be the end, then let _me_ be standing here when it comes!'

Breathing heavily, he sank downwards onto his knees, sad resignation taking hold. There was a tapping on the door. Getting up and brushing himself down, Meledan walked over to the door and opened it wide.

'Are you quite all right sah?' said General Granden, frowning.

'I'm fine, Bannox,' said Meledan, struggling to hold down the tension in his voice.

'Beggin' your pardon, sah, but I don't believe you.'

There was an awkward silence, until Meledan decided to invite the General in, closing the door behind him as the hare strode into the middle of the room, noticing the desk clear of all contents, which were now lying on the floor.

'What the flip happened here?'

Meledan was leaning on the door, a thought crossing his mind.

'Bannox, come with me.'

The badger led the hare across the room into the area, slightly higher than the rest of the chamber, which accommodated his bed. Going across to the far wall, where a large boulder sat against the wall, Meledan gripped the large rock firmly in two grip points, pushing his whole weight against it until the rock moved, sliding easily to one side, revealing the large dark cave that stretched backwards again into the mountain. Bannox Granden had seen this cave before, many years ago when a younger Meledan had shown it to him with the intent of enquiring as to its ultimate purpose. Not knowing himself, Meledan had let Bannox join him in roaming about inside the cavern discovering its secrets, until Meledan had shooed him out, explaining a need for privacy.

'You're not going to throw me out on me backside again, m'lud?' asked Granden, hovering on the dusty line between the cavern and the bed chamber.

'No,' said Meledan, shaking his head and taking a burning torch off the wall. 'I want to show you something.'

General Granden edged carefully inside the cavern, following the footsteps of his commander in chief, gazing around the cave, admiring the long line of drawings and pictographs etched across the cavern walls. As they approached the back of the cavern, to the left the secret chamber was crowded with tombs and epitaphs to long dead badger lords and ladies, former proprietors of the Mountain of the Fire Lizard. An endless sea of memorials, stretching back from the oldest known, Urthrun the Gripper, and working its way down the cavern towards its end, where a throne sat imperiously, seating a stone likeness of Lord Brocktree, the founder of the Long Patrol and its country-wide mandate, and between them; all those that had served between and beyond their reigns.

Bannox Granden felt very small walking past these giant tombs, following his master with every footstep, as they approached the back of the secret chamber. They travelled past the tombs of Sunflash the Mace, Orlando the Axe, Hightor, Brang Forgefire, Kelto the Just, Olastus Redsword...until they even passed the throne of Lord Brocktree himself, and Meledan worked his way carefully into a dark alcove in the far right corner of the cavern, where the carvings continued.

All around the odd little cave within, the pictographic predictions continued, encircling the entirety, creating an eerie scene. Meledan stooped slightly down to the left, and held out the torch to brighten an area he wanted Granden to see.

The general could clearly make out many of the events leading up to the point that Meledan was highlighting. The great travels of the Thousand Patrol, which travelled to the northern coasts, further than any beast had travelled before on land in known records; the army's dabbling in a navy, and the Battle of Corsair Isle that ended it; the commencement of the Great Peace; the exchange of two special chandeliers between Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron; the reign of Lady Vera Saxonos; and the birth of her heir. Transcribed on these walls were the destinies of many, all fashioned around the voice of one that lived many years ago.

It brought a smile to Granden's face, wrought with the possibility of a great spirit watching over these lives. His smile, however, did not last long.

Following the picture that predicted the succession of Lord Meledan Saxonos to the seat of Ruler of Salamandastron, the pictures ended. Blankness existed for the foot or so of empty, unused wall still left in the small side cavern, before then it reached the wall that rejoined the rest of the cave, and where pictures had been drawn predicting events already passed. Granden looked at his commander, his eyes glowing in the torch light.

'M'lud?' he gulped. Meledan simply nodded grimly. 'By jove...'

'I've searched every inch of the wall space inside this cavern,' Meledan explained. 'I've even walked around the mountain, at least four times, trying to find the carvings that continue the story.' He paused, and closed his eyes. 'Nothing,' he said, reopening his eyelids. 'This, Bannox, is what has made me so anxious these past few weeks.'

Bannox looked up at the lord. 'What do you think it means?'

'I don't know, Bannox,' said Meledan. 'But it's the reason why I've been so anxious. When I noticed the end of the writing, I thought about the long peace we've had. To begin with, I thought that this was a sign that peaceful times have finally landed upon us, but it seemed too perfect. It is as though vermin have vanished off the face of the earth, save for the odd galley or barque that sails past the mountain. Which made me wonder – what if they're building an army?'

Bannox squinted, thinking of the possibility. 'It's certainly a thought, sah.'

'The only other possibility, it seems, is that the end of the world is nigh.'

Bannox let out a loud guffaw, but prevented himself from an outdrawn laugh when he saw the serious look on Meledan's face. 'Sorry sah. No disrespect intended, wot.'

'I know it sounds ridiculous,' Meledan sighed, heaving himself into an upright position and leading the way out of the smaller cave, Bannox following. They made their way into the larger portion of the secret chamber, where Meledan stopped to look silently at the great stone carving of Lord Brocktree. Many seasons ago the body of the old badger lord had been moved to a tomb underneath the mountain, a resting place separate from those enshrined here. In his place, the seated statue that now rested there was created, and although it was not Lord Brocktree's own bones, in the dim light and the natural surrounding aura one would be forgiven for believing it was the badger himself.

Meledan had felt an affinity towards the ancient figure ever since he had arrived at Salamandastron. There was something immensely regal about Lord Brocktree – the respect he had commanded, the fear he could strike into the hearts of his enemies, and the legend that he forged. Meledan had read over the account of Lord Brocktree's life many times, and wherever he had found something particular incredulous about Russano the Wise's documentation, he had dug up the sources and been impressed to find how accurate it was.

Once, Meledan had hoped to one day achieve a similar legacy to that of Lord Brocktree, but over time he realised that such a character is achieved only in times of darkness, and that was something he did not want cast over his reign. It was a thought that had humbled him, and led him to the conclusion that prevention was a better means of defence than entering into battle only when the event is required. Unfortunately, this had made him somewhat paranoid in light of recent events. Meledan hated that he could not predict the future: that he had no idea of what lay beyond the mountains or over the next wave, a comfort that he had always successfully sought in the writings etched on the walls of the cave he stood in. But now he no longer had that comfort. His benevolence was being challenged by an unknown foe, and his passiveness bending to something that may not even be there. Meledan felt the madness rise up in him, which he quickly suppressed. The thought that his first Bloodwrath would be a result of mental insanity was not a nice one.

Bannox decided to leave his master alone, staring pitifully at the cold, stone eyes of the ancestor. He edged his way around the chamber carefully, and left, leaving by the large exit.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Morning came once again to Redwall Abbey, filling the windows of the great building with sunlight and wakening the inhabitants with a great deal of reluctance. Many who were still bloated from the previous day's feast struggled to remove themselves from their beds, and even those with stronger stomachs were sympathetic to the moaning Redwallers being shaken awake by their families and friends.

Like any other day, Abbot Peromus was the first up and about, despite also taking some time going about it. He checked his little garden and then wandered back to the abbey building, to help prepare for breakfast, although it was only to be a light one today: bread and jam was the main spread, the kitchens expecting the abbey dwellers to still be processing the food from yesterday. They were mostly right, with many not even bothering with breakfast.

Abbot Peromus managed some buttered toast and a herbal tea, but was quite full afterwards. Sister Bula mentioned that she would be spending the day with her brother, Kitch, down in the cellars. Kitch was the Abbey's brewery master and cellar keeper, the otter responsible for the continued creation of Bardon's Cider, which had been invented by his and Bula's great grandfather. As he could not remember the last time he had held a sufficiently long conversation with Kitch, Abbot Peromus decided to join her.

Located beneath the kitchens and its larders in the southwest corner of the abbey building, the cellars were deceivingly large. Over the years, the industrious capacity of the mole population at Redwall had seen massive growth to the originally fairly small underground area, to provide space for more great vats and barrels of beverages. In fact, Foremole, whose real name was Dubgar, was also present when Abbot Peromus and Sister Bula arrived, covering up the back wall with some large planks of wood.

'Gudd mornin' zurr an' marm,' he said gruffly in his rough molespeech. 'Ol' Kitch be in back. Cumm on, oi'll show 'ee.'

The cellars were in fact made up of five rooms, so as not to damage the foundation supports for the kitchens. From the main cellar area, three doorways were present along the left wall, leading to a cellar each for the brewing and storage of ciders, ales and wines. The fifth room was accessible through the one furthest along the wall, which contained ciders, and the fifth cellar was where Bardon's Cider was brewed. Its creator, Bardon Roving, had requested the expansion due to the large export quantities of the famous drink.

'Burr, Kitch, ee ol' Abbot an' yurr sister be 'ere,' Foremole Dubgar called out as he entered the Bardon Cellar.

Kitch was a lovable middle-aged otter, a couple of seasons Bula's junior, very handsome but just as cheeky; a reputation that Bula found incomprehensible in a father. The similarity, however, between Kitch and his son, the infamous Rogg, was uncanny.

'Mornin'!' grinned Kitch, emerging from behind a stack of kegs piled up in the far corner. ''Ow's yore food factories coping?'

'Don't start,' said Bula sternly. 'I don't know how you can stay so unaffected by it all.'

'Stamina, me beauty, stamina,' said Kitch.

'Burr, that be a pack o' loies,' perked up Foremole. ''Yurr 'ardly et nought, 'ee did!'

Kitch rounded on his mole friend. 'More'n I can say fer you, greedy guts!' he laughed, prodding Foremole's large stomach. 'The Redwall kitchens 'ardly need to wash the dishes wi' you around!'

'Least oi can take it, you beem jus' starvin' yerself! Pitch furr pitchfork 'ee shud be callin' you, it be 'bout your soize!'

'Pitch?' chuckled Kitch, 'least I ain't a lardbelly, Gutbar!'

Whilst this had been going on, Abbot Peromus and Sister Bula had been exchanging exhaustive glances. Eventually, Peromus put an end to the squabble.

'I don't see what difference it makes, really!' he cried. 'Whatever Pitch doesn't eat Gutbar can!' He paused, suddenly realising his mistake. 'I mean, whatever Kitch doesn't eat, Dubgar can! Now, Pi...ahem, Kitch, why don't you show us what you've been doing so far this morning?'

Kitch pointed over at a small pile of barrels that he and Dubgar had been rolling into the corner of the room near the door, ready to then be taken up onto the lawns. 'Gettin' ready for the seasonal deliveries,' he said, before beckoning Dubgar to assist him in moving the final barrel. The two abbey elders watched the cellar master and his friend pivot a barrel near the back of the cellar down from its high spot onto the floor, and then carefully rolling the large wooden casket down the aisles between the rows of barrels towards the selection piling up, now numbering ten in total.

'Right, why don't you two make yourself useful?' Kitch said to his sister and the Abbot. 'Could you start markin' the barrels?' He pointed to an old bookcase that had been moved down to the cellars for official usage. 'Use the stencils on the top shelf to mark all the barrels on the side near the top, and use the ones on the next shelf down on the first seven barrels. They're for Elmlow.'

'And the other three?' enquired the Abbot.

Kitch grinned. 'Why, they're fer us Redwallers!'

Abbot Peromus and Sister Bula set about marking all the barrels with the distinct logo of Bardon's Cider, a beaker with the letter "B" emblazoned on it, and then the first seven with the word "Elmlow". When they were finished, Kitch and Dubgar rolled the marked seven out of the cellars onto the lawn, with Peromus and Bula helping where possible. Once the other three had been carefully stored in Redwall's own storage cellar, Kitch locked up the cellars and started loading the barrels onto a small cart with help from Dubgar.

'Normally Vera helps us out with this lot,' said Kitch as they loaded the final barrel onto the cart. 'I wonder where she is?'

As if by magic, as soon as the words left Kitch's lips, Mother Vera emerged from the abbey building. Upon sighting Abbot Peromus, she walked over to him.

'Father Abbot, I've been looking all over for you!' she said. 'I don't know if you heard about our visitor last night?'

Abbot Peromus looked rightfully bemused. 'Visitor?'

'Yes,' continued Mother Vera, 'a fox by the name of Gibb Dartag, who called not long after the Long Patrol left. Apparently he is the former captain of a ship,' she added pointedly, widening her eyes as if trying to send a secret message to the abbot by her mind. It did not take long for the Abbot to receive it.

'You don't think...the ship Colonel Windscut was talking about yesterday?'

'I'm not sure,' said Mother Vera honestly, shaking her head as if to denounce what she had just said. 'But it does seem an odd coincidence. Do you think we should send a runner after the regiment? Let them know about our guest?'

The Abbot thought for a moment, then concurred with Vera's suggestion. 'Send Joss,' he said, referring to the squirrel bell ringer. 'Brother Caldo can take over her duties temporarily. She's a swift runner, as well as a champion tree-swinger. By the way, where is this Gibb Dartag?'

'Playing with the Dibbuns over by the pond,' she said, and noting the look of horror on the Abbot's face added, 'he's being watched over by Brother Arden and a couple of the masters-at-arms.'

The masters-at-arms were a product of one of the last wars to befall Redwall Abbey. Redwall's history was pockmarked with many battles and dark times, where champions had been called upon by the spirit of Martin the Warrior, one of the founders of the abbey, to take up his sword and defend the building from its enemies. The penultimate Champion of Redwall, an otter by the name of Norhilt, who found his calling many seasons ago during a great siege, had appointed and trained a group of individuals who supported him as battle commanders and fighters, called masters-at-arms. Following the end of the siege, and the start of the Great Peace, Norhilt decided to keep the group of eight trained soldiers, even after he hung up the great broadsword of Martin the Warrior. Over the years, the masters-at-arms became a sort of small guard for the abbey, often helping out with important chores that would not usually be able to be done by the Brothers and Sisters.

Vera Saxonos walked back to the abbey building to try and find Joss, whilst the abbot decided to wander over to the pond, saying his farewells to Sister Bula, Kitch and Foremole. As he approached the north wall to the dormitories, he could already hear the sound of shouting Dibbuns, the stressed voice of Brother Arden, two angry gruff voices and another, a seafaring voice that sounded like he was enjoying himself. Concerned, Abbot Peromus sped up his pace and soon came into view of the pond, where he was greeted with a rather unusual sight.

Standing on the edge of the pond was Brother Arden, shouting instructions at the two master-at-arms', who were waist deep in the water, trying to figure out what to do. In the middle of the pond, the rowing boat had been skilfully and artistically redesigned, clearly a collaboration of the mind of Captain Gibb Dartag and the youngsters: a mast had been affixed to the middle of the boat, and a jib strung across that, with a plank running along one side, creating a sort of diving board. The whole thing had been painted with random patterns and the name _Brown Barnacle_ written on the bow. Gibb Dartag was helping the Dibbuns up onto the planks on the mast, who were all dressed in typical pirate gear, and throwing themselves off the boat into the water.

Taking one look at the scene that was in front of him, Abbot Peromus puffed out his chest and, with a concerted effort to assert his benevolence, shouted at the top of his voice;

'WHAT IN THE NAME OF MARTIN IS GOING ON?'

At the sound of the Father Abbot, all beings in proximity stopped and turned towards him. The Dibbuns in the water hurried back onboard the boat, and the two masters-at-arms attempted to stand to attention in the pond.

'Masters Simm and Pax, get out of the water and join Brother Arden by the jetty!' he commanded irritably before rounding on the vessel. 'As for all of those on the boat, you are to sail that...that _thing_ back to the jetty and disembark! All you Dibbuns will be facing an early bath, an early night and no dinner!' He spied Gibb Dartag, who had paused still with a young hedgehog on his back, and his face was the picture of pain.

'As for you...whatever your name is,' the Abbot continued, 'I want a word with you right this instant!'

All parties involved went about doing the Abbot's bidding. Once the Dibbuns were off the boat, they were rounded up by Master Simm and Brother Arden and escorted off to the dormitories, where they would spend the rest of their day. As they were led off, the Abbot was not in the least bit surprised at catching sight of the ringleaders: Rogg and Zack. They were the only ones brave enough to chance a sheepish glance up at the Abbot as they walked by, who waited until they were gone before smiling and shaking his head.

'We did try to stop them before they set sail,' said Brother Arden, appearing next to the Abbot, watching the Dibbuns being led off into the Abbey via the east entrance by Master Simm. 'It all sort of happened so fast. We saw the mast go up and the ropes loosed off and then they were floating into the middle of the pond!'

Abbot Peromus turned to look at Brother Arden. 'I don't blame you old friend,' he said. 'I think the main leader here is our new resident.' As he said this, he turned to watch Master Pax, a heavy-set hedgehog, standing guard over Gibb Dartag, who was sat in the shade of a large willow by the pond's edge. The abbot walked off to join them, whilst Brother Arden went off to supervise the lecture that would be given to the Dibbuns.

Gibb Dartag saw Abbot Peromus approaching, and stood.

'You know, I don't like being strict,' the Abbot started before coming to a halt in front of Gibb. 'Particularly to young ones, who are after all only following a youthful instinct. But you, sir, should know better!' Gibb was about to speak when Abbot Peromus cut him off, pacing up and down in front of him. 'You should be ashamed of yourself! Whilst I do not usually mind some of the mischief that our youngsters get up to, what I do mind is when their safety is put at risk! Especially when supervised by an adult! Somebeast could have been seriously injured! Or drowned! You showed a total lack of responsibility by doing what you were doing, and I've a good mind to throw you out of my abbey!' Abbot Peromus stopped and looked up at the considerably taller Gibb.

'Can I just say...' said Gibb, '...hello.'

Master Pax stifled a laugh. The Abbot shot him an icy glare.

'This is not funny, Mr...'

'Dartag. Cap'n Gibb Dartag. An' can I say, yer grace, wot a magnificen' building you have 'ere in Redwall Abbey...'

'...well, thank you...'

'...an' that I 'ave not known such gracious hospitality in all me years as a pirate...'

'...well, I am glad to hear that, however...'

'...an' that I am sorry fer putting yer young 'uns at risk.'

'...you showed a total...' The abbot paused. 'Hold on, what did you say?'

Gibb Dartag bowed his head. 'I'm sorry if I put any of yer young 'uns in 'arm's way. I though' I had the situation under control, and clearly I didn'. Fer that, I apologise.'

Abbot Peromus stared in dumb shock at the humility shown by the fox, who had his head bowed and was staring uncomfortably at his footpaws. He turned to look at Master Pax, who shrugged, also bemused. There was a short pause, until Gibb looked at the Abbot.

'And, yer 'onour, please don't kick me out?' he pleaded. 'I don' fink I'd survive a day without your vittles. At least, I wouldn't want to!'

This brought a smile to the abbot's face.

'Very well, Mr Dartag, I will not throw you out,' Abbot Peromus said. 'However, I think that you should know that for every rule broken, or irresponsibility shown, there is a punishment, even for elder beasts.'

'Very wise yer grace. Tight ship – I like it.'

The Abbot eyed Dartag into silence before continuing. 'I cannot make exceptions for you simply because you are new,' he said, starting to pace again. 'However, I will make sure that the punishment is softened somewhat because you only arrived last night and have not had ample time to read the Abbey Charter.' The abbot stopped, contemplating his decision. 'As it happens, today is the day that a consignment of Bardon's Cider is delivered to Elmlow. You will assist our cellarkeeper, Kitch, and Foremole and his team in the delivery. Master Pax here will show you where to go.'

The hedgehog walked forward and pointed out a path in front of the fox, who followed it. The pair wandered off around the abbey building towards the front lawns.

Abbot Peromus walked down onto the jetty that jutted out into the pond, and stopped by the boat. It certainly wasn't the same boat anymore, and just as the abbot was considering asking Skipper Yeola to build a new one, he realised something. In the space of a morning, a lot of work had been done on the little rowing boat. The mast hadn't been clumsily jammed into place – rather, brackets had been secured firmly to the deck, the mast then secured to them: holes that had been created by the work of taking out the old seats had been packed with sealant, and new seats had been added at the stern of the boat, creating a platform above and a storage area underneath. Although the handiwork itself had some rough edges, Abbot Peromus was taken aback at just how much had been done on the boat, especially given the time restraints. Looking down the bank, he saw what looked like some sort of work area, with what looked like Brother Caldo's toolbox.

The Father Abbot went and got the toolbox to give back to Brother Caldo, all the while silently marvelling at the carpentry skills of their newest resident.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

That evening, Father Abbot was missing from the dinner table in the Great Hall.

He was not the only one. Oddly, most of the senior members of Redwall Abbey's populace were nowhere to be seen. Mother Vera, Brother Arden and three masters-at-arms had all also taken small meals from the kitchens before Brother Caldo rang the bell for dinner, and went silently up to the Abbot's study to talk privately. Nobody needed to guess what, or rather who, they were talking about.

'He sure is a dab hand at making stuff,' said Master Pax. 'I had a proper look at that boat, and he rigged it up proper like. Sure knew what he was doing.'

'Gibb Dartag is a seasoned sailor,' said Brother Arden matter-of-factly. 'I'm sure he's very well versed in how to craft things.'

'Perhaps, but the detail and efficiency seem out of place,' said Mother Vera. 'Whilst I never had any experience with sea vermin to talk of – the Great Peace started long before my reign – I've heard many stories.'

'Well, I would say that our Mr Dartag is an exception to the rule,' said Master Pax, who had been the fox's escort during his duties to Elmlow. 'He was a big help on the delivery. Took to it with gusto, in fact. Once we got to Borrower's Path, where the going gets a little tougher, he found a small, hollow log and instructed us to cleave it in half, from one end to the other. He then placed each cradle like log on the road ahead wherever there were particularly problematic parts and rolled the cart's wheels through them. Never had a problem. Once we got into the swing of things, it was a dawdle. Arrived at Elmlow before noon.'

'Quite a resourceful fellow,' Abbot Peromus pondered out loud.

'Once we got to Elmlow, I overheard Kitch asking Gibb how viable it would be to set up something more permanent,' continued Pax, 'running all the way from Redwall to the town.'

This caused Brother Arden to shuffle upright in his seat placed to the right of the Abbot's large desk.

'And?' he said, clearly interested.

Pax turned to address Arden directly. 'Apparently, he thinks it's possible,' he said. 'Err, that is, Gibb thought it was possible. It would take a large workforce working over a long period of time, but with spring settling in, if we're going to do it, now's the time.' For his closing sentence, he turned to the others.

Abbot Peromus leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on the palm of his forepaw, thinking. 'Maybe now is not such a good time. We can expect runners from Salamandastron with construction plans for these beacons any time soon, and we simply do not have enough workers for both projects, even if we compiled resources from both Redwall and Elmlow.'

'I'm sure the tribes will be more than happy to help out,' suggested Mother Vera.

'I still felt some resistance from the shrews to the idea,' said the Abbot, shaking his head solemnly. 'And I can understand why. The High Western Mountain Range poses a direct problem to the planning, not because of the logistics of construction, but because of the inhabitants.'

Brother Arden nodded knowingly. 'Ah yes, the bats.'

'Log-a-Log Sturrock enjoys a strong alliance with the bats and the various birds that live on or around the range,' continued Abbot Peromus. 'He's even managed to build up a relationship with the reptiles on the southern banks of the South Stream. Imagine if we started to disturb their peace with these towers?'

'Father Abbot, you said yourself that the towers carry benefits,' said Mother Vera, 'and that they could greatly help communication between Redwall and Salamandastron. Why could not the same benefits be applied to the other tribes, especially the ones that we converse with so little anyway?'

Master Felwin, the eldest of the masters-at-arms and de facto leader, did not seem to agree with Mother Vera's argument, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at her points. Abbot Peromus noticed the resistance being portrayed by the elderly warrior, and tried to reel him into the conversation.

'What do you think,' he said, leaning forwards in his great chair, 'Master Felwin?'

The otter, who had been standing away from the circle of conversers in a corner, stepped forward and crossed his arms officiously.

'And how would that make our roaming tribes feel?' he said. Striding around the room, he made his own argument. 'Both the Guossom and Guosim are constantly on the move, meaning that it's extremely hard to contact them in the first place, and a beacon system won't change that. We might be able to rig the same set up for the otters toward Camp Parley, but that multiplies the workload tenfold. Besides, I know how frustrated Log-a-Log Henny gets about our "special relationship" with Salamandastron – imagine how much more frustrated she'd feel if we were getting friendly with the bats over her tribe?'

'That's ridiculous,' Mother Vera snorted, waving her hand dismissively. 'Log-a-Log Henny should be glad that we're trying to keep peace in Mossflower.'

'Oh really?' Master Felwin puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. 'And what if the bats decide to use the beacons against us? Send deceiving messages for their own feeding advantages?' Before a creature could raise an objection, he raised his voice and directed it towards the Abbot. 'Father, ever since I heard about the hares' plan to build beacons, I've been firmly against the idea. Not only will it leave the creatures manning them exposed to attack, it alienates our allies and could be even be used against us. If one of these beacons were to be taken over by an enemy, it would be very easy for them to lure either Redwallers or the Long Patrol into open combat.'

Abbot Peromus stared curiously at the guardsman. 'Master Felwin, what makes you think that there is an enemy out there?'

All the creatures gathered there turned to look at the otter. Felwin looked around, apparently astounded by the naivety of his compatriots, and uncrossed his arms, instead placing his forepaws on his hips. 'Lord Meledan Saxonos is worried about an invasion of Mossflower Country. I suggest we take that concern seriously.'

There was a timid knock on the door, cutting off any attempts of defiant counter arguments. Abbot Peromus waited until Master Felwin seemed sufficiently calm.

'Come in,' he called.

The door opened slightly, and Sister Bula's head appeared around it.

'Father Abbot, everyone,' she addressed the congregation. 'Father, Joss is back. She told Colonel Windscut about our guest, who suggested we hold him under arrest until he can get word to Salamandastron to send a guard unit out to us.'

'I'll take that under advisement,' the Abbot frowned. 'Thank you sister.'

Sister Bula left again, closing the door behind her. Immediately, conversation restarted.

'And as for this Gibb Dartag,' said Felwin with a scowl. 'I cannot believe you are letting him roam free about the abbey! After this morning's incident, I'd have thought you'd have learnt something about vermin, Father Abbot.'

The mouse winced at hearing the word he despised so, and then rolled his eyes and stared at the otter. 'Learn what, Master Felwin?' he said, the question rhetorical. 'About the fox's character? That he sought to make happy young creatures on such a festive morning? If we are to judge his actions negatively, then we should also cast similar doubts over the rationale of your career choice.' He said these words with such solemnity that it caused the master-at-arms to take a step back, whilst trying to keep his composure. Every creature in the room was deadly silent, observing the fragile tension rising between the Abbot and the Master.

'This is my decision,' began Abbot Peromus. 'From tomorrow, Gibb Dartag will be allowed unhindered access to all areas of Redwall Abbey available to any other denizen. Master Pax, I want you to keep an eye on him – not spy; come only to me when you feel it necessary. I will ignore Colonel Windscut's suggestion to arrest him, and if he does decide to leave Redwall Abbey before the Long Patrol guards arrive, then he will be allowed to do so. Master Felwin, you are to stay as far away from Mr Dartag as possible – I do not want your prejudices compromising the peace. Brother Arden, I want you to talk to the fox, see how far his carpentry skills go. If he shows a keen interest, then I want you to put aside a space in the abbey for Gibb to work undisturbed on projects that may require his skills, such as wooden frames for the tower systems and a prototype for his log-road idea. Any Redwaller that wants to help him, may, so long as their assistance does not hinder their own chores. Thank you. That is all.'

Master Felwin raised a paw...

'That is all.' Abbot Peromus' word was final.

All the creatures filed out of the room, except for Mother Vera, who lingered a while, waiting for the others to leave before rising and closing the study door.

'Father Abbot, there is perhaps something you should know about Gibb Dartag.'

'Vera, I have said all...'

'I know, I know. But please, listen. When Gibb arrived last night, he carried with him two swords.'

The Abbot raised himself off his chair and wandered over to his bookshelf, maintaining his conversation with the badger mother idly. 'It is not unusual for pirates to carry weapons.'

'The first was no surprise,' continued Vera. 'It was a sabre, common with seafaring vermin. Sorry,' she remembered the abbot's affliction to the term, 'creatures. Simple, light, nothing special. The second, on the other hand, was quite different. It was a broadsword, and whilst simple in design, looked almost regal in style. It had a dark green scabbard and hilt, a silver-lined cross guard, and a silver pommel. It was, to say the least, remarkable.'

The Abbot stopped his book search, and turned to look at Mother Vera.

'Why are you telling me this now?'

'Because I do not think Gibb Dartag forged that sword himself,' said the badger, her eyes wide with imploration. 'I think he stole it, and possibly killed the previous owner to get at it. It is easy to see why a villain would kill for such a prize.'

The Abbot stared out into space, trying to imagine the glorious sword that Mother Vera had been describing, and wondering what purpose it might have at Redwall Abbey. Maybe it was somehow connected to the legendary sword of Martin the Warrior? Maybe it was a foretelling of grave times? Possibilities of more and more depressing outcomes started to come to the abbot, who brushed them aside with the fascination that he was beginning to exhibit on his old features.

'Bring me the sword.'


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

Many miles upriver of the Moss Sling, the name of the crescent bend in the river that flowed through Mossflower Country, leaning towards the great red sandstone building that dominated the landscape before correcting its course eastwards, snaking its way through heavy woodland, the river reaches the Forgotten Fork. Here, the River Moss meets the tail of the River Lonna, which branched northwards towards the Strigidan Mountains, weaving its way through the mountain range that stretched from the edges of the Cross-Woodland Path miles to the north of Redwall Abbey, to the Eastern Sea, the huge body of water that the River Lonna emptied into.

Upstream from where the River Moss and the River Lonna parted ways, the water became known as the River Dace. It was on this crossroads of the waterways that the home of otters in Mossflower Country was located. Camp Parley was a curious and truly remarkable system of dams, huts and bridges, connecting each of the banks to one another. One long, raised rope bridge swung across the mouth of the River Dace, whilst two immense dams provided both a means of flood control and access across the backs of the River Moss and the River Lonna. On each bank a collection of homes and other buildings were built, representing the residences of around eighty otters, and on the other side of the dam steadily controlling the flow of water into Mossflower, the wonderfully crafted river boat the _Bowler Beech _was moored, bobbing gently on the tide.

Camp Parley represented the furthest east otter clans had ventured, and was a marker for river travellers as the place where Mossflower Country ended, and the relatively unknown started. Just another few miles or so upriver the woodland abruptly halted, and a great waterfall fell down from the Dark Summit Mountains. No beast knew what was beyond the mountains, or for that matter much of what was directly in front of it, but it seemed no one cared too much.

Skipper Yeola felt charged only with the protection of the border she had defined. Whilst she was not overly curious about what lay further east, she had frequently sent bands of her otters north and south to lay down markers signalling the fringes of Mossflower Country. In her own hut, the entire southern wall was hidden by two huge maps of the world known to her and her clan. The first showed the world north of Camp Parley, with the Dark Summit Mountains barely visible on the right edges. The most northern point were the flatlands just to the north of the Noon River, and just to the south of the river were the markers representing the peaceful community of Noonvale and the old castle ruins, and to the south of that the Bold Mountains, a north-pointing branch of the Strigidan Mountains. To the west, the coastline gave way to the Western Sea and at the bottom of this map was the complete run of the River Moss, disappearing off the map momentarily near the centre where the waterway dipped south, forming the Moss Sling. At the bottom of the map and about four fifths along from the left, a circle was drawn where three lines met, with the tag, "Camp Parley".

On the other map, the land to the south was drawn, extending way down to the border between the open lands of Mossflower and the governed state of Southsward. Two of the most prominent locations for Skipper Yeola were marked on this map, their tags printed with bold, black lettering: Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron. This map was considerably more detailed than the first, with symbols marked on it representing near-forgotten locations such as the ruins of Loamhedge Abbey, St Ninian's Church, Brockhall and Gingivere Farm. Skipper Yeola was proud of her clan for the monumental achievement hanging on her wall.

However, it wasn't pride that was drawing her to the maps on this particular day. Instead, it was something quite different. Focussed on the right-hand map, showing the land to the south, Yeola was marking out five pins, running across the flatlands between Redwall and the High Western Mountain Range, all the while being very aware of the area of the range marked "Bat Mountpit". Whilst she had no doubt that Lord Meledan Saxonos and General Bannox Granden would already have a map drawn up of the beacon system, she was desperately trying to work it out for herself. Whilst the dunes and the beaches between the range and Salamandastron would not prove a problem, the protection of the beacons across the flatlands between the mountains and Mossflower Woods would. For the moment, the pins were placed along her own preferred path: running along the Cross-Woodland Path northwards, and then along the River Moss, and then back down the High Western Mountain Range to Salamandastron. It would require a further three beacons, but Skipper Yeola felt better having them located along an easily patrolled area; a duty that could be carried out by either the Guosim or the Parley Clan.

'Marm?' came a voice from the door. Yeola turned around to see that the young otter she had sent for had arrived.

'Padthorn,' she welcomed him, sweeping her paw to grant him entry. 'Thank you for coming so quickly. I thought you were on the North Bank, helping your mother with her roof?'

'Aye, I thought so too,' said Padthorn with a cheeky smile. 'Turns out Witt already had it under control. I've been helping the crew reseal the bulkheads on the _Bowler Beech_, so I was in shouting distance.'

'Excellent, but I have another job for you,' said Yeola. She put a hand round his shoulder and directed his gaze to the map she had been concentrating on, and pointed to the area marked with pins. 'See that area there? I want you to copy it to parchment. Then, with this other note written by meself, I want you to take a longboat to Salamandastron. There, give the parchments to Lord Meledan Saxonos.'

The skipper handed Padthorn the parchment she had written, and let him read it.

_To Lord Meledan Saxonos of Salamandastron, from Yeola, Skipper of Otters of Camp Parley. Here attached is a map of a possible layout of the proposed beacon system between Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron. As Camp Parley is a key component of the forces and beasts of Mossflower Country, may I also propose an extension of the beacon system further along the River Moss, up to Camp Parley?_

_May Spirits Walk Alongside, Yeola._

Padthorn smiled at the signature. Everybeast knew that Skipper Yeola did not believe in the afterlife, a trait that had been adopted by many young, impressionable otters like himself, but was often vehemently opposed by others, such as his mother. There were many in Camp Parley that thought Yeola cold for not _knowing _that an afterlife existed, though they could not deny her credentials as a leader. The Skipper was brilliant enough without having to be spiritual to unite her clan, but she often felt obligated to pretend to be so in front of her allies.

Padthorn nodded in acknowledgement of the order he had been given, and sat down in front of the map to begin sketching the area marked out by Skipper Yeola. Picking up a piece of charcoal and a plain piece of parchment, he made himself comfortable and then turned around to see if his leader was still present. He had time to catch the back of her head disappear out the door.

Yeola picked up her bow and quiver just outside her hut and slung them across her shoulder, securing her belt around her waist with an effort to make herself look as officious as possible. She was about to head off in the direction of the Moss Dam, which took her to the South Bank and where most of the population of Camp Parley lived. She put a footpaw forward, but then stopped, deciding against it, telling herself she wasn't in the mood for social interaction. She turned around, and walked past the Lonna Dam, taking a stroll along the west bank of the Lonna River.

She didn't get far when the chief of the _Garraway, _the small skiff that lived on the River Lonna, hailed her. Running to catch up with her, the portly boat commander came to a halt quite suddenly and took several deep intakes of air to catch his breath.

'Skipper,' he panted.

'Tag,' she smiled. 'How's the belly?'

Tagan pulled himself upright and let the aforementioned hang. 'Doin' just fine, love,' he said. 'Ain't much call fer running on a boat. Anyways, where're you off to?'

'Just going for a walk,' said Yeola. 'Would you like to join me?'

'Why not,' said Tagan, looking around to see if anybody was watching. 'Just don't walk so fast.'

Yeola smiled affectionately at the chief. She too turned her head to see if anybody was watching the two of them. When it was clear they were alone, she pulled herself closer to the otter and kissed him. Linking arms, they wandered down the river together, completely absorbed in one another's company.

'I don't like this.'

Tagan said it with a stern but sad look in his eyes. Yeola looked at him.

'Neither do I,' she said, 'but this is a law that I cannot so easily change.'

'I know, I know, it requires a vote,' said Tagan dismissively, breaking his eye contact and continuing down the river's edge. Yeola caught up with him and fed her arm through his once more, resting her head on his shoulder.

'Officially, you're still married,' Yeola explained for the umpteenth time. 'And the only way that the law can be changed is by council vote. You know as well as I do that there are too many spiritualists on the council.'

'I'm one of those spiritualists, Yeola,' said Tagan through gritted teeth. 'And I wish you'd stop using that word. It's not us that have to be defined, it's you.'

Suddenly, the arms became unlinked. 'Because I'm the one that's not normal?'

'Because you're the only one that doesn't believe in it!' exclaimed Tagan.

'So, just because I don't believe in it means I do not have the right to marry the one I love?'

This remark caused Tagan and Yeola to stop and turn to one another again, Tagan with sad eyes and Yeola with hardened ones. 'You have that right, you always will.'

'Then why can't I marry you?'

'Because I'm already married.'

'To a dead beast!' cried Yeola, frustrated. 'You want this as much as I do, Tagan! Why are you resisting it?'

'Don't you dare cast disrespect over her!' shouted Tagan, furious at Yeola's callousness. 'She means as much to me as you do!'

'So you equate your love for me to the love you have for a corpse?' Although she meant it angrily, Yeola could not help the sob she let forth. Tagan reached out his arms and embraced her tightly.

'Yeola, I believe that her spirit walks alongside me. Nay, I know it does. Because for a long time after she went, it was all that kept Dee and I going.'

Moving her own arms so that they could wrap themselves around Tagan, Yeola closed her eyes and felt the warmth of Tagan's body heat. 'I want to be the one that keeps you going, Tag.'

'I know you do. So let me put this in a way that you might understand,' said Tagan, thinking of what to say. 'When I was with her, I gave every piece of my heart to her. When she died, regardless of where she went, it felt like she had taken my heart with her. Now that I've met you,' he let go of her and cradled her head in his forepaws, 'she's giving it back. One piece at a time. Like she _wants _me to be with you. But despite how much I love you, because I do Yeola, I love you; she will never give back that final piece.'

'Weasel,' she joked. Even Tagan could not help a smile.

'Yeola, in my terms, she has not settled in the afterlife because she will not do so until I go there.'

This made Yeola even more upset. 'So what will happen to me? If there really is an afterlife? Will you abandon me at the gates and rejoin her?'

Tagan did not quite know how to answer. He searched for the words to come to his open mouth, but failed. In an attempt to hide her pain, Yeola turned away from Tagan, and marched, broken, along the bank alone. Tagan watched her go, and blinked back the tears.

As Yeola's head filled with bitter retorts and exclamations of love, all for the same beast, she sighted a sail that she did not recognise over the treetops, just beyond a bend in the river. Forgetting her own worries, she brought a hand up to the bow, gripping it tightly and calling behind her, hoping that Tagan was still there.

'Sail approaching! Rally the archers!'

Tagan was still there, and quickly busied himself with the matter at hand, running back off towards Camp Parley to raise an alarm and collect his own bow.

Skipper Yeola did not notch her bow, for although she did not recognise the colours of the sail, in times such as these the odds were in the favour of the visitors being friendly. Instead, she remained careful, keeping her right forepaw on her bow, and her left nimble, in case it was required to grab an arrow from the quiver. The sail approached the bend, and the bows appeared... revealing a shrew, standing heroically at the fore of a small yacht-like boat. Yeola relaxed both forepaws and jogged further down the bank to greet the newcomers.

'Ahoy there mateys!' she called out to the shrew. Suddenly, the creature pulled up an odd looking contraption that looked like a crossbow – instinctively, Skipper Yeola leapt behind a tree, taking her bow from her shoulder and equipping it with an arrow. Pulling the string back from her covered position, she emerged from behind the tree to the other side, walking towards the edge of the bank with the string now taut and the arrow pointing straight at the shrew, who was still travelling with his yacht upriver.

'Drop anchor, immediately!' Yeola ordered. The shrew was still pointing his crossbow directly at her, but pushed a small weight off the bow with his footpaw, which fell into the water with a deft splash and travelled to the bottom, slowly calling a halt to the yacht's progress.

'What is your name and where do you come from?' shouted Yeola, more of a command than a query.

'Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine,' the shrew called back.

Knowing that to press a shrew for information would usually result in the standoff continuing until sundown, Yeola offered her response first. 'I am Yeola, Skipper of Otters of Camp Parley.'

'Then I am Glenno, Captain of the _Freya, _and formerly of the Guard of Marshtown.'

The name of the town registered with Yeola – it was the name of the settlement that had been established by a group of former Noonvale residents not long ago near to the old castle ruins along the north east coast.

'On three, we put up our weapons,' she called. The shrew agreed with a nod, and Yeola counted.

'One...two...three.' She put up her bow, and the shrew lowered his.

The shrew picked up a rope, and threw it towards land, where Skipper Yeola caught it and started to pull the boat towards the bank, the shrew Glenno hauling his makeshift anchor out of the water and making his way aft to throw another line up to the otter. Once Yeola had secured the bow line to a tree, she secured the stern line, and pulled the shrew up onto the land over the wall of the bank. It was here, looking down into the yacht, that she noticed four companions to the shrew: an elderly squirrel, and a family of mice: two parents and their young one.

Once Glenno was out of the boat and had shaken the hand of Skipper Yeola, he introduced his crew. 'The old un's Isaiah, the daddy mouse is Noah and his wife is Amelia. The liddle un, well, we're still thinkin' of a name for 'er.'

'Pleased to meet you all,' the otter greeted them. 'I'll have my crew...'

As she began, Skipper Yeola noticed the bushes on the bank rustle violently, and her sharp sight soon picked up the silhouettes of otters notching arrows to bows.

'Crew, put up your weapons!' she called out. 'They're friendly!'

Upon that command, about a dozen otters appeared from various hiding places on both sides of the river, shouldering their bows. Tagan suddenly appeared by her side, looking down at Glenno curiously.

'Chief Tagan, please haul this yacht up to the moorings,' she said, 'and make its occupants as welcome as possible.'

Tagan started barking out orders to the otters he had brought, who began untying the ropes securing the _Freya _to the bank, and pulled it further along the River Lonna towards Camp Parley. Skipper Yeola, meanwhile, took Glenno aside for a private conversation.

'How is Marshtown these days?' she asked. 'Must be the first spring it will experience.'

'Aye, and the last most likely,' said Glenno grimly. He didn't wait to be asked. 'It's a long story. But one, I think, you have to hear.'

NOTE: In this chapter, you may notice a couple of discrepancies with accepted canon and geography. In the interests of amalgamating all the maps of Redwall books into a workable general map, I have used names from the book _Loamhedge _to provide an alternate route for Lonna Bowstripe in his journey from the North East coast into Mossflower, as the river featured in that book's map plays havoc with the geography of other books (in my reworking, he joined the River Moss near to the Moss Sling, travelling upstream before then turning back down onto the newly-named Lonna River). Another discrepancy is the way in which I describe the location of Noonvale and the castle ruins (Marshank) in relation to the broadstream and the Bold Mountains. This is because I am working via the text in _Martin the Warrior_, and not the map, as the two are contradictory to each other in describing the lay of the land.

Also, I would be grateful to hear feedback concerning the love story I've introduced, as well as the developments I've made with the character of Skipper Yeola concerning her spiritual beliefs. If the response to the love story is negative, I may rewrite that, but I will be keeping Yeola's atheistic beliefs.

Seeing as I'm here, I might as well add a few things. Thank you very much for those of you who have read and reviewed _The Intrepid Artefacts_, your feedback has been much appreciated. I do intend to make this story as long-running as I can, as I have a lot to include! It is such a shame that I do not have some access to the creative powers of Brian Jacques, as I would leap at the chance to enshrine this story in published form. If only I'd planted a mind control chip in his brain back in 1999. Damn my 10-year-old self.

Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

"It all started about two moons ago, around about the time of Winter's Eve.

'I was out on the sands, taking my normal patrol. When Marshtown was established, we wanted to build it bureaucratically on the same kind of ground as Noonvale, so we elected a chieftain and created a guardianship – I was one of them. Anyway, I was out on the beach around noon when I looked out to sea and saw a sail on the horizon. I rallied the rest of the guard, about twenty of us, and we readied ourselves to see what the ship would do. As it got closer, we realised it was only a small galley like vessel, but we hadn't seen ships on the coast before, so we played it careful like.

'The ship dropped anchor not far off the coast, and a couple of longboats were dropped into the water. As they got close, we realised they were carrying about a dozen vermin altogether. We watched them careful like, until one of them raised their forepaw and declared themselves as friendly. T'be fair, only about eight of them were actually armed, and they carried only a rapier each, though a couple of stoats had bows and arrows. Nothing like what we expected. We met them, shook paws, and they seemed civil enough, so we allowed them into the village and we all seemed to be getting along just fine.

'They were very curious about the area. Said they came from a land far to the north east, and that it was the first time they'd travelled this far west. Spoke with a funny kind of accent – rough and heavy, and the first time they spoke we knew they weren't from anywhere we knew about. It was only a couple of them that actually conversed with us, 'cause they were the only ones that could speak the language. The others spoke amongst themselves in a language completely foreign to us. The leader, a ferret called Yallen, seemed friendly enough and we chatted to him mostly.

'They set up a camp of tents on the beach not far away from Marshtown, keeping to themselves mostly, but we would mingle occasionally and Yallen would spend most of his time in the town. Him and me got along quite well eventually.

'It got to about the fourth night, and that's when he started asking me about the lands surrounding us. I told him there weren't much to the north – just uninhabited flatlands north of the Noon River for the most part, sparse woodland and then the climate got much colder, heading up into the Highlands where it got very mountainous, and was controlled for the most part by the mountain hares. Then he asked me what lay to the south and west.

'I'll be honest – I was hesitant. I didn't want them really knowing about the area, but it didn't really occur to me at the time that I could have lied. Besides, I'd hesitated too long – I knew that to lie then would've been too obvious. So, I told him first about Noonvale. Then, heading south along the Cross-Woodland Path, across the flatlands to the west of the Strigidan Mountains, you reach Mossflower Woods.

'Further down the path, there lies Redwall Abbey, a peaceful community of woodlanders who live in a great sandstone building. I should have noticed Yallen's eyes light up at the sound of Redwall. I hardly paid any attention to it. I just kept talking. About Salamandastron and the Long Patrol, and about Elmlow, the shrew unions and Camp Parley. Even the hedgehog tribes.

'A couple of weeks passed, and Yallen kept pressing me for more information – curiosity, he told me. Plain curiosity. As Marshtown grew, we started to share resources with them. Then, Yallen came to the village elders one day and announced that him and his crew were going to establish a settlement next to ours, and seemed to be asking our permission. Of course, the chieftain gave it. That evening, the cornerstone for the first building in the new village was lain, and we had a party to celebrate. Rolled out nigh on half the vittles we had for the feast.

'That evening, after all the dancing and whatnot, and the sun was far gone, these two stoat archers put on a show for us. Quite spectacular really, considering how ignorant we were to the actual meaning of it. Further down the beach, they gathered some oil and spread it across the beach in a pattern, and then they stood in a little puddle of it. Then, they shot two flaming arrows up in the sky, which hit each other, and fell to the ground, right on a patch of oil, which lit up the beach. Before the flames could reach them though, they shot two more arrows at these tiny little sacks placed next to the stream of oil going towards them, which disrupted the oil flow. Afterward, they then fired two more arrows up in the air, which hit each other, and fell back to earth right where they had been standing. Their aim must have been absolutely spectacular.

'The next day, we spotted a mast on the horizon. We thought nothing of it, as it still seemed to be quite a way out by noon, and over lunch we even asked the others about it, who lied and told us that they knew nothing about it. The rest of the day passed peacefully enough, all of us blissfully unaware of plans already laid.

'Once the sun was down and all of the Marshtown creatures were to their beds, it happened. I was patrolling near the old castle ruins when I suddenly realised something odd about the water. I started towards the shore, and suddenly realised why the other guards hadn't spotted it, aside from probably sleeping on the job. They were rigged with black sails.

'Aye. _They_. It weren't one ship – it was a whole fleet of the monsters. One ship was about three times the size of anything I'd even seen before, with decorated strakes along the sides and a large figurehead on each bow. The one I managed to get the closest to appeared to have a carved figure of a badger. I didn't get to see much else, I tried to keep meself hidden, and observe the goings on. The crews of each ship then lowered themselves into jolly boats and made for the shore. Well, that's when I decided to raise the alarm.

'I woke the guards that were supposed t'be on duty – when you're defending a small town like Marshtown, at times like these, you don't expect any trouble. Then, I went round knocking on doors and gathering up as many able-bodied fighters as I could, and assembled them on the shore. We were about to let off a volley of arrows when three of my finest mice archers were felled by arrows further down the shore: it was them two stoat archers, backed up by their crew. They had us, and there was no way out. They told us that if we surrendered, we wouldn't be harmed. So, we dropped our weapons and let 'em tie us up. Once they'd done this, they signalled to the boats, who continued rowing. Behind 'em, their ships pulled down their black sails and rigged up white ones, prob'ly just to show us their might. And let me tell you, an armada of that magnitude looked unbeatable.

'They rounded us all up kept us cosy for about a week whilst they fixed up the old castle, making basic improvements to it until it seemed like a suitable prison for us lot. Once we were all herded in, they started to unload their ships. We managed to get in a few peeks through the gaps in the walls, and saw that they were assembling an army. And they weren't messin' about either, they numbered easily in the hundreds. Maybe thousands. It was at that point that we realised what they were gonna do, and it was confirmed when they tried interrogating the chief about Redwall Abbey. He didn't say anythin', but he was given something to remind him of his silence. Blind in one eye now.

'We needed to get out. Fast. We spent about a week coming up with the plan to get a few of us out of there, out through a gap in the wall on the north side. The plan was for a small group to create a distraction by feigning an injury on the southeast corner, whilst a whole bunch of us slipped through the gap and made for the hills. Unfortunately, we weren't as successful as we'd hoped. The first part went off without a hitch, but as we made for the hills the guard patrols spotted us and started firing arrows at us whilst another lot tried to flank us. Only Isaiah, Noah, Amelia and meself got away – the rest were either killed or recaptured.

'Once we were over the hills, the next part of the plan got underway. One of the shrews who was in the escape group owned a second home on the banks of the broadstream, and his family were boat builders by trade, owning two sailing yachts. The plan was to take both of them to Noonvale, but we knew that if we did that the enemy would track us back there. Plus, we figured we'd be harder to follow out to sea, considering the yacht would be faster than their massive ships, which were all pointed towards the shore anyway. We thought heading out and then back to the coast again would throw them off.

'Luckily, me and Noah know our way around boats, 'specially considering I grew up on 'em. We took one of the yachts out of the mouth of the river, and made for the horizon. We don't know if we were spotted from the shore, but there didn't seem to be any efforts to come after us. Once we'd lost sight of the coastline, we tacked sharply and headed south west.

'We got back to the coast far south, but were presented with cliffs so we figured we'd overshot the mouth of the River Lonna, so backtracked northwest until we found it. Then, we headed upriver until we bumped into you lot. Amelia gave birth shortly after we started along the river.'

The story had gripped the otters of Camp Parley. Whilst Glenno had been telling the tale of their ordeal, the old, grey squirrel Isaiah had been drifting off to sleep and Amelia was looking after baby, showing it off to some of the otter mothers. Noah, meanwhile, had been listening intently, keen to make sure that Glenno told the story accurately.

'I was one of the recruited archers on the shore when the longboats were making their way in. I was standing next to Galen, one of the squirrels who died by the arrows of the two stoat archers. Although I am saddened by the loss of my friend, I thank the stars that I survived, for the sake of my daughter,' Noah said, bowing his head in memory, before looking across at his wife and child. Amelia looked up and smiled at him, noting the sadness in his eyes.

'Galen,' she said. 'We'll call her Galen.'

'Aye, 'tis a good name,' concurred Glenno. 'And let her be the legacy of Marshtown.'

'To Galen.' One of the council members, Wilf, raised his beaker. The congregation followed his lead, the sound of the crowd an unclear balance between sad contemplation and hopeful elation. Skipper Yeola heard the noise, and seemed unsatisfied with her clan's response. She stood, and looked around.

'Enough of this wallowing!' she cried. 'The battle has not even begun!'

'When the battle is fought, it will be over very quickly,' murmured Noah.

'Aye, followed by the screams of the fleeing enemy!' called out one of Yeola's crew.

Glenno stood up next to Yeola. 'You're fools!' he shouted. 'They number in the thousands! Your holt would be wiped out in seconds! These beasts are well-armed, well-trained and well-organised! Not to mention the fact they outnumber you by... by... well, I don't know by how much, but they outnumber you!'

'I'm not talking about going out to meet them alone,' said Yeola, turning to talk to Glenno in a lowered tone. 'I'm talking about going to Redwall Abbey and gathering an army from there.'

Even this didn't impress Glenno. 'Redwall is a peaceful place,' he said, shaking his head. 'They will never advocate the assembly of an attacking force!'

'He's right, Yeola,' said one of the senior councillors, Clammer, seated to the other side of the skipper. 'And even if they did, how big a force do you think you could rally? It might number in the low hundreds, but it wouldn't be at all enough to defeat the army Glenno describes.'

'So... what do you suggest?' asked Yeola angrily. 'We roll over? Let them conquer Mossflower?'

'We don't even know that that's their intention,' Clammer responded.

'A thousand-beast army is amassing on the north eastern shore, and you don't think that's their intention?'

'I don't know,' said Clammer, clear and resolute, staring Yeola down. 'But it would be foolish to enter into open war with a force of that size, when we know nothing about them.'

This time, Glenno rounded on Clammer. 'I can tell you their intentions!' he exclaimed. 'They killed three beasts, and imprisoned an entire town!'

'And did they, in all that time, explain why?' Clammer retaliated.

'They didn't need to!'

'They could've executed each and every one of you and slept soundly in their beds,' Clammer continued. 'So why didn't they? The possibility of recruiting you? Glenno, you should know that that'd never be an option for any decent creature. So why keep you alive?'

'Enslavement, maybe?' Glenno suggested heatedly.

Clammer stood up in order to achieve some height over the shrew. 'For what? You're talking about a huge, well-equipped army that is most likely designed to stay mobile. Do you think that they would waste their efforts lugging a group of slaves along with them? You described an invasion force, Glenno, not a group of settlers.'

'Look, their first port of call will mostly likely be Noonvale,' said Skipper Yeola, calming herself down and attempting to do the same for Clammer and Glenno, turning to the former. 'So, a Redwall force may not be enough to hold 'em back, but a Long Patrol one would. We need to send a messenger to Salamandastron or intercept one of the regiments and tell them to head north and reinforce the Noonvale guard before this mysterious army gets there. Even if they're not hostile, which I think is unlikely, then at least we're covering the bases.'

Clammer sighed heavily and nodded, agreeing with Yeola's prognosis. 'Well, Padthorn's already on the way there, so maybe we should send somebeast after him.'

'I'll call Otis,' said Yeola after a second's thought. 'He'll be able to scout out the army and find out more about them, like whether they're settlin' on the coastline or moving south. By the time he's done that, Padthorn will likely have moored up for the night, give Otis the chance to catch up.'

Skipper Yeola walked off towards her hut. Glenno leaned in closer to Clammer.

'What's an Otis when it's at home?' he asked.

'An owl,' replied Clammer. 'I'd hide if I were you.'


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

The final breath flickered the last candle still alight in the darkened chambers of the Lord of Salamandastron.

Meledan opened one eye, and looked around his quarters hesitantly. Opening the other one, he looked down at the three standing candle stalks in front of him. Two were burnt out, but the third one was just a light, still providing a small amount of illumination to the otherwise pitch black room. The windows and doors were boarded up, and even the cracks around the large entrance to the chamber were sealed with bed sheets and garments. From his cross-legged position on the floor, Lord Meledan turned his great head in the direction of the large, ominous boulder that concealed the mountain's secrets, and saw that it had been heaved to one side. A smile crept across the badger lord's face.

Suppressing the strings pulling on his heart, he calmly walked over to the windows and pulled the wooden boards off them, letting daylight pour into the room. Judging by the life of the candles and where the sun hung high in the sky, he guessed he must have been in a trance for a whole day.

He shook his body, ridding himself of the tension accumulated in his limbs, and then breathed in and out heavily, doing the same for his mind. Once he felt a little more relaxed, he picked up the candle and held it out in front of him, letting it guide him past the boulder and into the secret chamber.

A feeling of odd elation accompanied him on his walk through the crypt-like space, and the further he travelled the less he believed, and the more he _knew _it had happened. He reached the second chamber, and walked in, looking around at the pictograms littering the walls, swelling with pride at the marked and merited history of Salamandastron. Putting down the candle, he got down onto all fours and found his place. The Great Peace, the chandeliers, the reign of his mother and his birth...

All feeling of goodwill and hope that had inhibited Lord Meledan in the last few minutes deserted him. He could not understand, and nor did he want to, that his eyes were met with nothing but blankness. Nothingness. Pointless, depressing, cold, _infuriating..._

'AAHHH!'

The badger threw himself onto his feet, spun and slammed like a force of two juggernauts his forepaws into the wall, spinning again and kicking the candle, extinguishing its light and plunging the cavern into darkness. Meledan Saxonos slumped his bulk down onto the floor; his back rested on the rear wall, and did something that he had not done since he was an infant.

He wept.

It must have been another hour or so before he decided to feel his way back out of the chamber, unable to use his eyes in the dark. When he made his way back into his chambers, he opened the balcony door and stepped outside, breathing in the fresh spring air. He looked down at the beach, where preparations were being made by the 7th Antonus Engineers, named after a previous badger lord who had created the engineering brigade for the purposes of building the docks that once stood on Salamandastron's north side, in anticipation of the establishment of the old naval division of the Long Patrol. Now, the seventh incarnation of the regiment, each version designated by the number of times it had been disbanded and reformed or had undergone reorganisation, was being used for perhaps the greatest achievement since the Patroller's Navy.

Whilst observing the preparations, an operation of such scale that it could not be conducted inside the mountain without seriously disrupting the lives of the other regiments, Meledan heard a voice call out from above him:

'Sail to the north west!'

Instead of going inside and making his way to the top of the mountain via the tunnels, Meledan clambered up the rocky side of the mountain until he reached the top, where he startled the young hare on watch when his head popped up over the edge of the summit.

'Good lord, sah, give a young 'un a heart attack, wot?'

'Sorry Private, stand easy. Where's the sail?'

'Ah, right, yes... it's just... wait. Where'd the blasted thing go?'

The hare pointed out to where he had seen the sail, and Meledan followed his paw. He strained his eyes trying to find the sail that the hare had apparently seen, but he could find nothing. Nor could the hare.

'Sorry sah, false alarm. Could've sworn I saw something...'

'That's all right private. Keep your eyes open, better to be safe than sorry.'

'Too right, wot? Me eyes won't leave the horizon sah. At least, until lunch.'

Reminded of food, Meledan Saxonos entered the mountain through the proper entrance from the summit, and walked down to the mess hall to get some. On the way down, his mind still stayed fixed on the problem of the blank space on the wall.

From the research he had done, he had encountered one documented account of a badger lord putting himself into a meditative state, to wake up and find more pictures on the wall. It was incredibly disappointing for Meledan that the same result had not been achieved, but the document, written by the badger lord who experienced it, Sunflash the Mace, said that he had felt compelled to do what he had done by a force he did not fully understand – there had been music that was unknown to him, and that was all he could remember before then presumably he had picked up the hammer and chisel and created the pictograms that ultimately dictated his own reign. This must have meant another badger lord after him had created the next set that stretched further into the future than Sunflash's moment of creative flourish. Or perhaps every badger lord, at the start of their reign, carves out new pictures. It wasn't knowledge passed onto him by his mother, if she had undergone that process. Even if she had or hadn't, why hadn't he experienced it?

Before he knew it, he was sitting in the mess hall eating a slice of ginger cake. He didn't even like ginger.

In the prison cells beneath the mountain, General Bannox Granden was visiting Warbit.

'There's something rather odd about your story,' said the General. Warbit was playing with a band on his wrist. 'And that is the question of why. Why did this ship attack you?'

'Dunno,' said Warbit quickly. The answer seemed too hasty to be honest.

'Of course you do,' said Granden. 'But you think that if you tell me, I'm going to string you up. Oh, don't worry, that's precisely what we're going to do, bucko, but not before I've squeezed every last bit of information I can out of you. Got that?'

Warbit said nothing. He just stared at Granden with uncaring eyes. They then darted to the corner of the room in contemplation, and then the rat readjusted himself in his chair.

'The flag.'

Granden opened the file he had lain out in front of him, and found the picture that Warbit had drawn for him. Underneath that there was another piece of paper with a closer image of the flag's design that had been sketched by a Salamandastron hare under Warbit's instruction. Granden pulled this second sheet out and placed it on the table between Warbit and himself.

'What about it?'

'We've seen it before.'

Granden's blood coursed, and his eyes reddened. 'You said you'd never seen this ship before! That it was a complete mystery!'

'And we hadn't!' responded Warbit quickly, matching the shouting volume of his captor. 'The ship was totally a mystery, I swear! But the flag, well... it was familiar. It didn't really occur to anybeast at the time, but afterward, we realised that it wasn't the first time we'd encountered these creatures. But not on the boat,' he added quickly.

Granden sighed and leaned back in the chair. 'So. You've encountered these beasts before. When?'

Warbit looked down at the drawing of the flag, which had marked out in lettering the colour of each of the different sections, again, according to Warbit's description. 'There was one difference. The cross section was the same: red, white and blue, but the background was white, instead of the lighter blue. That was prob'ly the reason why we never realised it in the first place.'

'Where was this?'

'Sampetra. They 'ad a little problem earlier in the year with a rebellion, an' they're still trying t'get on their footpaws again, wot with the whole slave freedom thing. We reckoned these creatures were there to try and agree trade deals with 'em.' Warbit seemed uncertain of this, and Granden assumed it was just guesswork on the sea rat's part. 'Remember 'ow I said this ship, the _Intrepid_, was crewed by stoats and otters?'

'You mentioned it.'

'Well, these beasts were the same... kinda. The creature carrying the flag, as a standard, was a weasel, and the main guard was made up of weasels, stoats and otters. Real mix. But the beasts they were guardin'? A mouse, and two female squirrels. They were decked out pretty fancy, and we thought we could get a fair amount of gold for the stuff they were wearin'. So, Dartag ordered an attack. Killed the guard beasts and the mouse, but the two squirrels got away. They weren't fighters, and young by the look of 'em. We didn't 'ang around to check who they were, 'cause it made no odds to us. That's prob'ly why they attacked us. Revenge.'

Granden stared into the rat's eyes, trying to seek out anything that may have been hidden from him. 'Now, is there anything else that you want to tell me? Because I don't want to go away and come back again, only to find out that you've got another, vitally important story for me?'

'That's it. We looted 'em for what they 'ad, and scarpered.'

'What was looted?'

'Usual stuff. Chains, necklaces, weapons. They fought with swords, 'cause it was close quarters combat, but they 'ad those things that fire, well, _fire _on 'em. If we'd known what they did we'd 'ave taken them too. What we collected weren't nothin' unusual about it.'

Granden believed him. At this stage, there was no reason for Warbit to lie – as far as could be predicted, he would be spending most of the rest of his life behind bars, and the only thing he could barter for would be his rations. Considering allegiances were not factored into a decision made by sea rats, it made no sense for Warbit to owe any loyalty to a fox who, as far as any of the prisoners knew, was already dead. Granden, on the other hand, had received a message from a 10th Honour and Hunt Regiment runner just yesterday.

'Where's your loot now?' asked Granden.

Warbit grinned. 'Why, wanna fill yer coffers?' he joked cheekily. Granden resisted the urge to strangle the rat for suggesting it.

'I ask so that we can be assured it won't lead to a tedious treasure hunt by any of your kind who could use it to build themselves a fancy army,' said Granden monotone.

'We didn't take any wiv us, if that's wot you mean,' Warbit spat back. 'We didn't 'ave time to go and get the loot. All we 'ad was what was in our pockets when we abandoned ship, and that was confiscated by youse lot when we arrived 'ere. I reckon the other ship must've taken the rest back.'

Granden felt somewhat pleased at that. Although he had no knowledge of the ship or its history, the story so far suggested the treasure was back in the paws of its rightful owners. He gathered up his papers silently, and left the cell, signalling to one of the guards carrying a tray that he could feed the prisoner the full ration.

Next stop was the beach where the preparations were being made. He was supposed to be there, overseeing them, but he had decided very early on to take a personal interest in the whole _Intrepid _business. So, he had left the commander of the engineers in charge, but he wanted to get up there just in case Lord Meledan decided to come out of his oddly sporadic hibernation cycle. On his way there, he stopped by the prison inventory, where items and weapons confiscated from inmates were kept. Inside, it was fairly bare. After a time, the metal weapons would be melted down and reforged for Long Patrol use, and any non-armoury type items given away if the prisoner died whilst in captivity. Luckily, this had never happened, and so the inventory room's only attractions today were a couple of bows and quivers, a variety of seven swords or daggers, and a few bits and bobs also found on the current inmates.

Granden fished through the assortment of odds and ends, and found two items that looked like they had once belonged to the mysterious _Intrepid_ and its crew. The first was a small silver disc, with the head of a badger on one side and a tree on the other, and strange words that Granden did not recognise around them. On both sides, in bold lettering, the symbol "X" was embellished. The second item was a medal, probably taken from one of the otters, with two crossed swords on them, and a word that Granden did recognise: "Valour". He turned it over, and saw that it was a little stained with blood, and a couple of hairs trapped in the pin. The general pocketed both items and headed outside.

'Well, those are not otter hairs. They're stoat.'

Lord Meledan Saxonos was rather too good at detecting the origin of small strands of hair, and each time Bannox Granden saw this skill at work he became fascinated with his lord's ability to come to such immediate conclusions.

'You sure, m'lud?' he asked. 'I can't imagine a stoat being rewarded for valour, wot?'

'Hmm,' said Saxonos, 'maybe not.' He handed Bannox back the medal and stared out across the brigade from his position on one of the rocks just outside the main entrance of the mountain. The brigade was standing to attention on the sand being inspected by their commander, Brigadier Blithe.

'What about the disc?' asked Granden, holding it out for Meledan. The badger took a second to realise Granden was talking to him, but when he did he took the small item and held it in his paw, holding it right up to his face to inspect it.

'Interesting,' he said. 'Well, what I can tell you is that the "X" means ten. Redwall Abbey still uses the old symbolic system, as do many creatures, but you may not know about it considering Salamandastron converted to the current numerical system many seasons ago, even before the Great Peace.'

'What about the writing? Do you recognise it?'

Curiously, Meledan took some time answering that question. He studied the symbols closely, and then seemed to be mouthing words to himself, and Granden thought he was translating it when suddenly the badger turned to him and said, 'no.'

'Sah? You sure?'

Reluctantly, the badger looked back down at the disc, studying it closely whilst talking to Granden.

'Well, they bear some resemblance to a language I've seen before,' said Meledan. 'In the writings of Urthrun the Gripper, one of the first badger lords. He wrote in common, but he often makes references to Ancient Mustelidae, the name of the tongue spoken by badgers in early times. The two languages aren't exactly the same, but I do sort of recognise this word, "debeo",' Meledan pointed to one of the small words on the tree side, '"debeo" means "to owe".'

Bannox Granden took the small disc back and studied it himself. 'So what do you think the blasted thing's for?'

Meledan frowned, and looked at Granden, surprised. 'It's for trade. It's currency. We may use barter for buying and selling, but this is a kind of more complex system to what vermin use.'

'They put a weight of gold or silver against the value of certain items,' recited Granden, starting to realise the purpose. 'So, this is currency?'

Meledan nodded. 'Worth ten small pieces of silver.'

'I say, that's rather clever!' smiled Granden.

'Perhaps,' said Meledan, rather coldly. 'But what that represents is a system fuelled by villainous practise. Maybe we should treat this unknown ship with more hesitancy.'

The badger lord looked out across the parade, watching Brigadier Blithe finish his inspection, before then barking out commands to his unit. The large assembly of hares then set off in unison south, towards the Great South Stream and the most direct route to Redwall Abbey. Somewhere amongst them was a squad of Salamander Guards, carrying chains alongside their weapons, equipment and rations.

To their backs, hidden high up in the mountains that overlooked the beaches, a ferret, holding an odd telescopic instrument, set this aside and dug around in his pack for a signalling lantern.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

'Father Abbot? Don't tell me you've been up all night staring at that thing?'

Mother Vera had missed the presence of her playful abbot at breakfast, and had sought him out at lunch with a bowl of oatmeal, left over from that morning, which had been piping hot when she had begun her search, but was now rather tepid. Upon peering into the office, she had laid eyes on the old mouse sitting on the floor with the sword laid out in front of him with the blade pointing away from him. She entered, closing the door slowly behind her, and sat down cross-legged next to the abbot, putting the bowl down next to him.

'I brought you some brunch,' she said. Abbot Peromus did not look up. 'It might be a bit cold now, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I didn't want you to go without, no matter how late it was.'

The Abbot saw the bowl and looked up at the badger mother. He smiled wearily. 'Thank you, Vera,' he said in a fragile tone. 'And, no, I had some sleep last night. Unfortunately, it was not much. I woke in the middle of the night with the image of the sword still playing on my mind. So I came in here to study it, hoping to find something worthy of my interest.'

Vera cocked her head to observe the sword at a neater angle. 'Looks like Martin's.'

'No,' said the Abbot instantly. 'I had thought that too when I first saw it, simply because it looked about the same size, and utilised a pommel stone. However, there are more differences than similarities. Martin's blade has two straight sides that meet, whereas this one is more like a broadsword, with two parallel sides that then form a long, triangular point at its head, and it also has a rain guard to prevent rust at the hilt. Also, the binding is green, not black, and the pommel stone silver, not red. Also, Martin's crossguard is crescent-shaped, bending towards the blade, but this one is perfectly straight.' The Abbot admired the sword for a second. 'Martin's sword was forged for a warrior. This sword was forged for a king.'

Mother Vera's spine tingled at Abbot Peromus' profound words. 'Indeed,' was all she could say.

'There is something else,' said the Abbot, turning to Mother Vera momentarily, before turning the sword over. On the other side of the blade, running from top to bottom along the beautifully polished metal, were lines of writing. 'I don't know what it says, but I'm sure it's something important.'

The badger mother stared in amazement at the lettering, and turned the sword in a half-arc, so that the blade lay horizontally, and the writing read left to right.

'You would think that, wouldn't you,' said the Abbot. 'But I can't make head or tail of the words.' He looked at the frowning and curious face of his companion. 'Vera?' Abbot Peromus ventured. 'Do you know these words?'

'I think so,' she said. 'I couldn't tell you what they mean, but they look awfully similar to an ancient badger language.'

'There is more than one?' enquired the Abbot.

'Yes,' Vera nodded. 'There are two known. The first was a runic type language, which we know as the Old Badger tongue, but is academically known as Ancient Canoidea, and is still sometimes used to convey messages intended only for the eyes of other badgers. Then, from this, came a phonetic language, called Ancient Mustelidae – as language became more widespread amongst beasts, a simpler tongue was required. Then, over time, this language became forgotten, replaced by what we call the common tongue, which is what we now write and speak in.'

Abbot Peromus was intrigued, and showed it rather well by the wide eyes and agape mouth he now sported. 'So, this is Ancient Mustelidae?'

'I'm not sure. No. I mean yes... oh, well, I don't know,' Mother Vera stammered. 'It certainly looks like Ancient Mustelidae, but I don't recognise some of the words, or the letter styles. And the ones that I do don't look the same as how I remember them.'

'Might there be a book that we can consult?' asked the Abbot. Without waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet. 'Come on, let's go and look in the library.'

'Wotcha doin' Mr Darta?'

'I'm buildin' a catapult to sling youse over the wall, so you'll stop pesterin' a weary ol' traveller like meself,' came the response from the now very busy former captain. 'And me name's Dartag, not Darta! Or, just Cap'n to the likes of you!'

'Darta... Dartaaa... Dartaaaac...'

Gibb Dartag burst into uncontrollable laughter at the site of his new best friend, Rogg Bardon, trying to pronounce his surname. For some reason beyond either of their understanding, Rogg, whose name consisted of two G's, was having difficulty adding one on the end of Gibb's full name.

'Rogg...! Rogg... for the love of me splitting sides, call me Gibb! Haha!'

Rogg bounded off the workbench and stood to attention, saluting the fox. 'Right y'are, Cap'n Gibb!' As soon as he had done so, he spied his hedgehog friend Zack and ran off to meet him, leaving the former captain holding his sides and attempting to recompose himself. Once he had wiped away the tears, he looked down at the workbench and breathed in heavily, admiring his handiwork so far.

Since the following day, Gibb Dartag had found himself in charge of Redwall Abbey's new carpentry workshop, located under a lean-to in the south-east corner of the abbey grounds. Abbot Peromus had asked him to start fashioning some joints and beams for the beacon towers, so that construction could begin as soon as the Long Patrol engineers arrived. Dartag had been assigned two strong mice assistants to help out, and Dartag was enjoying being in command again, even if it wasn't a pirate ship. Though, as he was starting to realise, telling pirates what to do and telling mice what to do were a world apart. Instead of questioning his orders or moaning about getting the hardest jobs, his two companions were fully compliant with Dartag's requests. Whenever the fox gave an outrageous order, however, instead of trying to slit his throat the two mice would simply refuse and threaten him not with a sword, but with a report to one of the three authoritative bodies in Redwall Abbey: Father Abbot, Mother Vera or the Masters-at-Arms.

Of the three, Gibb was most afraid of the latter. Specifically, Master Felwin, the otter who always seemed to have his eyes trained keenly on the fox, despite already having a chaperone in the form of Master Pax, who was friendly enough, but a terrible liar. Gibb knew a spy when he saw one. It did not necessarily bother him, he fully expected an abbey of woodlanders to be suspicious, and he knew that as long as he did what he was told and didn't disturb the peace then he would be fed and given a comfortable bed.

Originally, the plan had been to seek sanctuary at Redwall Abbey until he was ready to move on, possibly further east, or south, finding a port where he could acquisition another vessel. However, after almost just three nights at the abbey, he was starting to enjoy his new life. It was simple. Nothing too strenuous, and he may not be rich, but it didn't matter: he still received a luxurious lifestyle without a need to be. And he was making _friends_. Despite the odd enemy, most of the creatures were warming to him. Rogg and Zack had been the most welcoming, but then there was Brother Arden; Master Pax; Kitch the cellarkeeper, who didn't mind at all that his son was slowly turning into Dartag's sidekick. Life, it seemed, was turning out to be rather good.

As he thought about it, he spied one of the reasons why life was bad trudging towards him. Master Felwin. The otter squared up to the fox silently, and then looked down at the workbench separating the two of them. He inspected the first batch of large joints Dartag had made so far, looking for flaws or attempts at sabotage.

'What's this one for?' Felwin asked, holding up an odd-looking connector that he obviously didn't recognise.

'That's a corner piece,' explained Gibb. 'I'm reckonin' that straight on joints won't be able ter 'old yer horizontal beams. So, this thing connects on a diagonal around the vertical beam, and is then secured into place by metal joints through those four 'oles,' he indicated the holes he meant. 'That way, the integre'i'y of the upward structure ain' compromised.' Satisfied, and perhaps awaiting a reward to be dealt, Gibb smiled widely and stood up straight.

'I don't trust it,' said Felwin, putting it down on the workbench and crossing his arms in a challenging manner.

'Well, I can't help you then skipper,' said Gibb jovially. This prompted a sudden reaction from Felwin, who leapt over the workbench, his legs outstretched, knocking the fox straight in the stomach, winding him and sending him crashing to the ground. Then, the otter brought his forepaws up to the fox's throat, and began throttling him.

'Don't you dare take that tone with me, you dirty piece of scum!' exclaimed the otter through gritted teeth, slowly putting more and more pressure on the fox's oesophagus, who began to splutter for breath. 'If I had my way, you'd be hanging from the rafters, waiting for the Long Patrol to take your corpse back to the sea where it belongs! You're a worthless, stinkin', piece of bird bait, and I cannot believe you're actually _building stuff _for us! You make one dud piece – one unworkable screw – and I will take pleasure in gutting you myself!'

As Gibb's eyelids slowly began to close under the strain of keeping himself alive, a shadow cast itself over the duo, and, as darkness began to close in on the former captain, he suddenly felt relief, and as he opened his eyes further he could hardly believe the sight of his aggressor literally rising into the air. As he looked closer, he noticed the large, black and white paw gripped around the stomach of the master-at-arms.

Master Felwin felt himself being pulled off the fox and then thrown down onto the grass. Looking up, he found himself staring into the infuriated features of a badger whose name the old warrior could only recall as being Lady Vera "Iron Paw" Saxonos of Salamandastron. She growled menacingly at the otter, and, after a couple of seconds delay, barked,

'Scarper.'

Felwin picked himself up, still a little shocked, and walked, in an attempt to regain some dignity, back towards the abbey building.

'How are you?' asked the badger, helping the fox up, her previous tone vanishing in the blink of an eye.

'Better,' croaked Gibb, rubbing his throat. 'Cheers... marm.'

Mother Vera guided Gibb to the infirmary, taking the east entrance and helping the exhausted fox up the stairs, until they finally arrived on the second floor. She handed him over to Sister Gertrude at the door, and then wandered down the corridor, which connected to the lower attic spaces that comprised the abbey's library. Stretched across a small section of the actual block, the library's spaces then extended out of the old abbey building perimeter over the east wing, an unusual portion of the abbey that stuck out into the lawns, directed towards the south end of the orchard. It had been from this window that Abbot Peromus and herself had seen the commotion caused by Master Felwin, shortly before Mother Vera then bounded down towards the grounds to sort it out.

'What a calamity!' said Abbot Peromus. 'How is Gibb?'

'He'll be fine once he's rested and had plenty of lemon tea,' Vera assured him. 'Mind you, I don't think it's Felwin he should be worried about.' Vera bowed her head and stared at the abbot matter-of-factly as she delivered her last sentence.

'Oh, Vera, drop it,' said the Abbot. 'At least this way, I'm keeping all parties happy. Gibb stays here and helps with the building preparations in contentment, and provided he doesn't leave, the Long Patrol will have their prisoner.'

'All the while lying to the beast who is contentedly helping with building preparations?'

'I'm not lying to him. I'm merely... forgetting to impart certain information.'

Vera frowned. 'It's not right.'

'Of course it's not right, Vera. But what would a Long Patrol commander say if they turned up to find Gibb Dartag gone because we told him there was a band of militaristic hares coming to interrogate him?'

'He would have left,' concluded Vera.

'Precisely,' confirmed Abbot Peromus. 'And I imagine in that circumstance any Long Patrol commander will see it as though I was warning Gibb. If he does decide to leave on his own accord, then I cannot be tried in the processes of doing my duty as the leader of a _sanctuary_, not a military establishment, and I hope the Long Patrol understand that; as I hope you understand that politics is more complicated than right and wrong. And I am certainly not going to bend to the will of Master Felwin and imprison him, on a charge that rests entirely on account of him being a fox. Behaviour is not reliant on species. I do not consider myself anything like Martin or Matthias – if war came upon us, would Master Felwin also automatically pronounce me Champion of Redwall on the assumption that all mice are strong fighters?'

It was a reasonable argument, and Vera decided to drop the issue permanently. Instead, she joined the abbot's search for any books that may have been compiled regarding ancient writing or badger languages. Soon, they came across a heavy book bound with red cloth with the title, _Ancient Mustelidae Dictionary_.

'Aha,' exclaimed the Abbot. 'Perfect.'

They set the large book down on the table next to the sword and began sifting through the pages. They chose the first couple of words, _"Dî platêia quávo cóntrecto mî"_, and started looking through, trying to find the best possible interpretations to the words, as it became clear that the words were not exactly Ancient Mustelidae. Abbot Peromus scribbled down the most precise translation, and then read it back.

'To place who you to binding document I.'

The mouse threw the piece of paper down on the table, looking rather put out at the awful transliteration. 'I think it's safe to say this language is not the one we think it is.'

'No,' agreed Vera, already scanning the shelves trying to find other books that may be helpful. Suddenly, she stopped, her eyes fixed on a book placed high on a shelf in a corner. Taking a chair, she propped the back up against the bookcase and stood on top of the chair, reaching up to the book that had caught her eye. It was a dark navy blue, and its spine was unusually unmarked. Instead, it simply had a small golden crown symbol printed on its front cover.

'Oh, that was a gift many years ago from the King of Southsward,' said Abbot Peromus, dismissing it and turning his head in the direction of another bookcase, the one upon which they had found the dictionary. Mother Vera, however, sat down in the chair and started to flick through the pages.

'How long ago was it when you received the King of Southsward?' she enquired.

Abbot Peromus stopped and pondered the question. 'Oh, it wasn't me; it was the abbot before Abbess Martha, my own predecessor. Abbot... Lacey, I believe. They exchanged gifts at the time of the visit. The King received a rather beautiful vase if memory serves me. As Abbot Lacey had been the abbey recorder before, he received a book. It's a compendium of old tales, now told as bedtime stories in Southsward.'

As she flicked casually through the pages, something caught Vera's eye, and she backtracked through the pages until she finally arrived at the start of a story entitled _"The Dying Soldier and the Fateless Traveller". _She read out the title, and before Abbot Peromus could tell her to get back to the problem at hand, she shushed him rather abruptly and started reading.

'"Many years ago, in a land far to the south, a wandering fieldmouse happened upon a woodmouse, who was sitting in the shadow of a great oak tree, dressed in a suit of worn armour, a greatsword of high calibre and a shield bearing a royal design set to one side. The fieldmouse stopped and offered to help the woodmouse, who had clearly just been in battle and was in need of assistance. But, the woodmouse declined the offer, replying, 'Nay, my friend, for I am already gone from this world. My time is almost upon me, and I shall die with honour 'neath this tree that I have found for myself.' The fieldmouse, saddened by the woodmouse's story, decided to sit awhile and wait. When the woodmouse asked the fieldmouse, 'why do you stay, good sir?' the fieldmouse replied, 'there is little in this world that I find more dispiriting, than a goodbeast dying alone.' So, the woodmouse accepted the company of the fieldmouse, and they talked of their lives, their loves and their longings, and their hates, their harries and their hopes, until it came to the time, as the sun fell lower in the sky, that the woodmouse should say goodbye. 'Alas, my friend, Dark Forest calls to me,' said the woodmouse. 'I thank you for your company this fine day. Should it be that I leave this place without fulfilling a favour in return?' The fieldmouse wondered what a dying soldier could possibly offer a young traveller, whose life was still to be lived; an adventure upon which the fieldmouse was ever so scared of embarking. With this thought, the young traveller realised what gift a dying soldier could offer him. 'Kind sir, I believe I have come upon a suitable favour for you to perform in return for my conversation. When you arrive at the Gates of Dark Forest, and before you enter your life after life, I ask that you enquire unto my own fate from one of the Keepers of Dark Forest. Whatever you learn from them, you will return to life as we know it here for but a moment, to impart the wisdom that you learnt from that Keeper of Dark Forest.' The woodmouse thought it an odd deal, and enquired, 'but what, pray, if I do not return to life as we know it here?' The fieldmouse thought, and, knowing that the virtue of a warrior is his sword and his standard, offered, 'if you do not return, then I am permitted to take your greatsword as my own, and your shield as my alms.' The woodmouse agreed to the terms, and shortly after the two companions had secured their bargain with a thrice-shaken clasping of paws, the soldier faded to Dark Forest, whilst the traveller waited. Soon, the sun passed over the earth, giving way to darkness and the night, yet soon to return the next day, where the fieldmouse still sat in the shade of the great oak tree, awaiting his friend's return from death. Upon the morning of the third day, the fieldmouse, believing the woodmouse to have broken the deeds of their bargain, strapped the shield to his arm and fitted the scabbard upon his back, the greatsword's size hanging from below the waist to high above the head. With these two utilities of war, the fieldmouse, no longer afraid of his fate, continued his arduous trek north, ready to forge his own destiny."'

Abbot Peromus had, by this point, taken a seat and had listened intently to the incredible tale that Mother Vera had unravelled from the pages of the book bound with royal cloth. However, he quickly shook off the intensity of the moment, and said, 'that's very nice, Vera, but what's it got to do with _our _sword?'

Vera put the book down on the table, still open at the pages from which she had been reading, and slid it under the nose of Abbot Peromus. Amongst the writing, there was an illustration, a detailed depiction of both the sword and the shield described in the story. The sword was magnificent, and its partner equally so, a heater shield that bore a cross whose sections met in the top left corner, its thick central section coloured red, and its border white then blue. The background was also white, but in the large space below and right of the cross there was a long paragraph of writing, written in an unknown language. On the sword's blade also, there was a single line of writing in the same language. Abbot Peromus suddenly realised why Mother Vera had stopped on this particular page: the language was the same as that on the sword lying on the table in front of them, and, like a blessing from above, underneath the illustration was a translation.

_'Translated by the fieldmouse of the story, Pesel Moorfeet. Sword: "Bloodnight, Honour of a Knight of Hope and Glory." Shield: "Here I come to battle as the border of a land at war, a coastline of the ground upon which we walk, the leader of knights and champions who honour the freedom, the truth, the loyalty and the glory."'_

'Brilliant!' squealed Peromus with excitement. 'And to be honest, it doesn't look _too _dissimilar from Ancient Mustelidae. In fact, they're almost similar, with a few minor changes in what seems to be a dialectical issue. Vera, do you think you could translate the writing on the sword using this book and the Mustelidae dictionary?'

'I think so, yes,' said Mother Vera confidently. 'I'll get to work now!'


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Taking one more glance up at the councillors, Yeola's head dropped back down again to the scroll she held, contemplating her agenda. She only really had two topics of discussion, and she was still arguing with herself as to which one should go first. Selfishly, she wanted to leave the matter that was secretly personal to the end, but knew that this was not the topic to be focussing on. Trivial matters should come first. Not that it was trivial to her, but unless she told the council why it was not so, it would remain that way in the eyes of her peers.

'First, I want to talk about marriage laws,' said Yeola, standing. A few of the councillors rolled their eyes, and one of them immediately interjected.

'Yeola, I'll never understand your fascination with spiritualism,' he said. 'For a beast who doesn't believe in it, you're surprisingly persistent about disproving it.'

'I respect spiritualism,' said Yeola, her eyes flicking quickly over to Tagan, who was also present, 'but marriage is not something that is necessarily linked to the spirits. It's about two people expressing their love for one another, and that should not be bound to spiritual belief.'

Another councillor, the chairbeast, an old female, piped up. 'That's understandable, Yeola, but your proposals would reshape how creatures should think about the afterlife and the spirits. Love is undeniably linked to these things.'

'Why should it reshape anything?' asked Yeola, confused.

'You've already garnered a following,' said Councillor Clammer. 'Many otters now believe in the things that you do, and they have grown rapidly into the schools of cold reason that leave no room for spiritualism. Going over your proposals, Yeola, all I see is references to these principles. Belief in the afterlife is not something that is taken for granted – surely it is logical for there to be a place the spirits go after death?'

Yeola sighed. 'Why?'

'To suggest that there is nowhere for them to go, suggests they are not there in the first place,' said Clammer. 'Do you deny the existence of the spirits?'

'Who's to say the spirits ever leave the mortal plane?' exclaimed Yeola. 'Why should we believe in another higher...'

'If they still wander this life, why can we not see them?' a councillor interjected.

'Maybe they're ghosts!' cried Yeola. 'But maybe it's just logical not to believe in the spirits in the first place!'

'Then why carry us down that line of argument?'

'Yeola,' Tagan stepped in, stopping the Skipper from continuing. 'Is there maybe a reason why you don't believe? Something that happened in your life?'

Clammer sat upright, interested in Tagan's approach, and backed him up.

'You are not a member of any of the old families,' said Clammer. 'You joined the clan as a pup after leaving your old holt. Did something happen to you in your young life?'

Yeola was starting to get angry again. 'So, when you cannot come up with a reasonable counter argument you turn the situation into a personal inquisition?' she exclaimed furiously. 'Maybe,' she continued, her eyes burrowing into Tagan's, 'if you believe I have to have a reason, then that reason is something different.'

Councillor Clammer noted the softer tone that Yeola took with her chief, who turned to the council.

'What if there was a way to accommodate Yeola's proposals?' said Tagan, thinking on his feet. 'Most of the suggestions that she is making involve changing marital law. Instead of making death a finality to marriage, could we not change it so that a beast can marry more than once?'

This caused massive unrest around the table.

'That's unspeakable!' one of the councillors immediately said. 'Marriage is one beast to another; to suggest otherwise is sacriligeous!'

'And I agree,' said Yeola timidly, weighing in on the debate cautiously, not wanting to raise another verbal storm. 'That's why I'm suggesting divorce.'

A collective sigh arose from the councillors, who spent a few moments looking at one another with exhaustion. As they discussed the matter amongst themselves, Yeola turned to Tagan. With his support, the council may be swayed. Tagan turned away from her, and looked down at his paws until one of the councillors spoke up.

'Maybe we should have a vote on the matter,' she said. 'The options are thus: creating the right to divorce, the right to marry more than once, or the keeping of law as it is. All those in favour of the first, raise your hand and say "aye".'

Of the eleven councillors, Yeola and three others - the trio of more liberally-minded members - raised their paws and delivered a weary vote in favour of divorce. The Skipper of Otters looked at the male otter beside her, who still had his paws firmly on the oak table. The quick look she gave him was once again noted by Clammer.

'All those in favour of the second, raise your hand and say "aye".'

The first three paws came down, and one paw shot up, belonging to Chief Tagan. Yeola already knew the result. Even her double vote could not change it.

'Finally, all those in favour of the third, raise your paw and say "aye".'

Six paws shot up, each belonging to the rest of the council.

'Including the Skipper's Double Vote, the result is five to one to six, in favour of no change,' said the chairbeast. 'Let's move on to a Council proposed issue, shall we?'

Yeola fell back in her chair, and Tagan bowed his head. Clammer's eyes narrowed in fretful realisation of the situation.

'Although it's beyond the borders, the _Dace Drifter _found a nice collection of...'

_'SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!'_

The sound from above made the council jump, and no more than a couple of seconds later a large owl landed with a quaking thud on the large council table, his wingspan stretching out across its diameter, providing a truly magnificent and frightening entrance. He landed directly in front of Skipper Yeola, his wide yellow eyes staring unblinkingly at hers.

'I bring news from afar, Skipper of Otters!'

Yeola panted out a calming rhythm to lower her suddenly soaring blood pressure, and managed to recompose herself. 'Otis, never, ever do that again. And don't stand on the table.'

The large owl flapped his wings a couple of times to help him jump off the council table and land on the ground near to Yeola's chair. He tucked his wings away and relaxed back into his normal speech.

'Whassup dudette,' he said jovially in greeting. 'I did a scout of yer beach, and I...'

'Skipper! Skipper!' a young patrol otter suddenly broke through into the council circle.

'Whoa, it's all kickin' off,' said Otis, not at all annoyed that he had been cut off.

'Chan, what is it?' Yeola asked the otter.

'It's Log-a-Log Henny, she just arrived. They're mooring their logboats now.'

'Well, I'll wait until she can see me personally. I'm in the middle of something here. Tell Henny to meet me down on the Moss moorings.'

The young otter dashed back off again to relay the message.

'Otis, continue.'

The owl puffed out his chest and went on with his story.

'Man, have you got problems!' he said. 'Must've been about eight thousand of what I saw, but the size and number of the boats, well, I'd say there was maybe another two thou' unaccounted for. They've got shields, swords, crossbows - you name it, they've got it. And they ain't stupid either. Got some pretty awesome building projects on the go. Siege stuff by the looks of it. I mean, dude, you've got a fight on yer hands.'

'What about the fortress?'

'Could only get a couple peeks in, but the occupants seem OK. They're being fed and all that.'

Yeola didn't say anything, but gave Otis a look that suggested she wanted an answer to a question she didn't want to ask.

'As far as I could tell, they're not being used for slavery,' said Otis. 'Just kinda sittin' there, doing nuthin'.'

Yeola nodded her thanks, and went into deep thought. Tagan sensed her mood, and thanked the owl for the holt.

'Thanks Otis. We kept the canteen open, so go get yourself something to eat,' he said.

Otis made a casual salute with his wing. 'No probs dude. I'll get meself a bite, have a kip then head off to Redwall.' The owl took off and headed for the canteen on the North Bank.

When Tagan looked back around, he saw the seat next to him was empty and Yeola had disappeared. He turned back to the council just in time to hear the chairbeast call an end to the meeting.

/

Yeola shook Henny by the paw and stared around at the shrew detachment.

'Henny, what's going on? I didn't expect to see you again so soon,' Yeola enquired, though smiling, to show that despite the unexpected arrival, she was still glad to see them.

'Neither did we,' said the shrew. 'We've brought back something that might belong to you. We found it wedged in the bank just upriver from the Moss Sling.' The shrew waved her hand in the direction of the finding - an otter longboat, with a marking on its bow. Yeola immediately recognised it as the longboat that Padthorn had taken with the map of Yeola's own beacon system idea.

'Where did you find it?' she said alarmingly, clutching Log-a-Log Henny's arms with her forepaws, shaking slightly.

'Downriver, like I said,' said Henny, frowning, concerned at Skipper Yeola's odd behaviour. 'We found a haversack onboard and this,' breaking free of Yeola's grip, Henny showed Yeola the piece of parchment they had found, bearing a bird's eye view of Mossflower Woods and five points marked out between the indicators for Redwall Abbey and Salamandastron.

Yeola closed her eyes as tears came to them. 'Did you... did you find the body?'

'Body?' Henny enquired, confused.

'Of an otter?' said Yeola, opening her vision again.

'No, just the boat,' Henny continued. 'We thought it might have come loose at the moorings. Yeola, what's going on?'

The Skipper wiped the tears away, and directed Henny from the bank, unravelling the story that had been developing at Camp Parley.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Gibb Dartag found himself standing in the abbot's study, confused and slightly apprehensive. That morning, as he had started to write out the plans for the smaller structures he had already created for mass production, Master Simm had joined him and Master Pax, and told Gibb that he was to be escorted to the study. Even Simm had not known what the commotion was all about. At breakfast, Abbot Peromus had been called away by Brother Caldo, and they both left with Mother Vera in tow, who was, rather oddly, flexing her muscles as she did so, gulping down a rather strong cup of tea on the way out of Cavern Hole. Kitch had shown up a little later, and the moles were reportedly instituting a temporary ban on venturing outside the abbey building.

The fox had been escorted to the empty study and left there, whilst Masters Pax and Simm waited outside for the abbey superiors to arrive.

Abbot Peromus walked in and smiled forcefully at the fox, to which Gibb responded in kind. The others, however, did not even attempt that. Brother Arden chose to ignore him, and instead walked in looking very officious, with a blank scroll of parchment, a quill and a pot of ink tucked under his arm. Master Felwin's entrance came accompanied with a fierce growl, marching up to Gibb and telling him to stand up straight, before wandering over to a window and leaning against the frame. Gibb had been vigilant enough to notice a scabbard holding a short sword hanging from the master-at-arms' belt.

Gibb Dartag didn't ask where Vera Saxonos was.

The Father Abbot sat himself down in his chair, and Arden his, who unfolded the parchment and began taking notes, even before anybody had spoken. Dartag tried peering over the top of the squirrel's arm that was hiding his notations, but as he did so, Abbot Peromus began.

'How are you this morning, Gibb?'

'Not too shabby,' he replied. 'What's all this about?'

'This morning the abbey received a visitor,' said Abbot Peromus, making sure not to betray anything emotional. 'An owl, in fact, who goes by the name of Otis. You may have noticed that we put up a corden around the abbey during that time; that is because we have had some bad experiences with this particular bird. He is, however, very well trusted by a holt of otters that are good friends and allies of Redwall, and he sometimes serves as a messenger for them. That was the purpose he was fulfilling today.'

Gibb heard the faint sound of Master Felwin shifting his pose against the window frame.

'Two days ago, a family of mice, a shrew and a squirrel arrived at Camp Parley, former citizens of a settlement called Marshtown, which was established on the North Eastern shore a couple of seasons ago,' the abbot went on. Now, he lowered his head and his voice became more sincere. 'However, very recently the fate of this town became considerably less hopeful. The beach upon which it sits was the landing site of a large invasion force, much bigger than anything witnessed in Mossflower Country and its surrounding lands since records began. This force numbers in the thousands, and is made up of organised and well-equipped soldiers. Some of them are even building siege equipment. The local population has been imprisoned.

'However, what is more worrying about this situation is how far it seems this force has managed to spread in such a small amount of time. A young otter, who was travelling along the River Moss westwards, has been taken, and the otters have reason to believe that this unkown army is responsible. It is a concern much larger in scope, as it suggests that this army, or offshoots of it, has now ventured south of the Strigidan Mountains, and is potentially no more than a day's march away from Redwall Abbey. Also of deep concern is the fact that the peaceful town of Noonvale lies on the other side of the Bold Mountains and Moor, which runs from the north to the south, and separates the marshes in which Marshtown lies and the countryside in which Noonvale sits. Many lives are at stake here, Gibb, and so I want you to be honest and truthful in the next few minutes.'

Gibb was bemused. Surely they could not think that he knew anything about...

'Do you know anything about this invasion?'

The question startled Gibb slightly. 'Wh... why would you think I knew anythin' about it?'

Felwin leapt. He delivered a sharp blow to the back of the fox's head, who fell forward onto his face, hitting the study floor with a resounding thud.

'Master Felwin, control yourself!' shouted the abbot furiously. Brother Arden stopped writing, and stood up from his chair to help the fox up. However, the fury of Felwin's punch had transferred to Gibb in a manner that betrayed him; as soon as he was up on his feet, the fox threw himself at the otter, his teeth latching onto Master Felwin's arm, his paws clutching ferociously onto the otters', which were clawing madly in an attempt to grab the hilt of the short sword he carried.

'Masters-at-arms!' came a cry from Brother Arden, which was followed by the vicious entrance of Masters Pax and Simm, who ran in, just as the fox had managed to lay a paw on the hilt of Felwin's weapon. He drew the short sword high for all in the room to see, before the rage and the instinct overcame him, and it fell with forced velocity towards the chest of the fox with a scream - a scream quickly cut short by the quick thinking of Master Pax, who swung the mace he carried in a horizontal arc, hitting Gibb on the side of the head, knocking him onto the floor unconscious and diverting the path of the sword.

Felwin scurried out from under the bulk of Dartag's incapacitated body, and stood up, shaking away offers of assistance. Across the room, he saw the Father Abbot, staring in plain disbelief at the scene he had just witnessed. Master Felwin realised that he had no better opportunity than the one presenting itself to him now. Striding confidently past Master Simm and Master Pax, he stood to attention before Abbot Peromus, and delivered his ultimatum.

'Father Abbot, it is clear to me that what has just transpired here was an act of defiance against the truth,' he said, clearly and without any hint of shame at the guesswork he was handling. 'I believe that Gibb Dartag knows exactly what is going on the North Eastern shore, and I seek the permission to take Mr Dartag down to the Lower Basements, where he will be secured as a prisoner of Redwall Abbey. Then, with your permission, I will interrogate him until he delivers the necessary information that can be used to properly defend Mossflower Country from the threat presenting itself.'

Abbot Peromus realised that his plan had been shattered, and the reason accompanying it no more than a fool's dream; to believe that he could have let events play out without something volatile occurring was incredibly naive. But there was no doubt in Abbot Peromus' mind that the beast responsible for this change in circumstance was not Gibb Dartag. It was Master Felwin.

The abbot found his voice. 'Permission granted,' he murmured, in a daze. Shortly after saying it, he began to regret it, but he knew there was no alternative now.

Master Felwin instructed his two comrades to lift up the fox and drag him down to the lower basements, a part of Redwall Abbey that was rarely ventured to and never used. As they did so, the otter retrieved his sword and slid it back into its scabbard. Once the three guards had left, Abbot Peromus collapsed back in his chair.

'What have we started, Arden?'

Brother Arden looked sympathetically at his abbot. 'I think, in the end, it was inevitable. Gibb was raised to be a pirate, and all he was doing was suppressing an instinct buried so thinly it was bound to be revealed eventually.'

The abbot nodded in sad agreement. He pushed himself upward off the chair, and walked over to the window next to his desk, which looked out across the orchard from its location on the first floor, above the east entrance to the building. He watched some of the Dibbuns playing amongst the apple trees, hoisting one another up to the branches in an attempt to retrieve some of the new fruit. Soon, Sister Bula appeared, which caused the precarious structures the young creatures were forming themselves into to collapse in a mess. A young otter and hedehog quickly dashed off with broad smiles on their faces, whilst those that had been the highest on the shoulders of their friends, and so took more time to compose themselves, were grabbed by the sister and firmly berated.

Abbot Peromus had read enough and was suitably learned to know that there were only a few reasons why any army would want to invade Mossflower. Redwall Abbey. Its splendour was suitably grand enough to give any creature reason to believe it held treasure, a rumour that any abbey dweller knew was far from real. Yet, from the historical accounts, it was clear that it was a rumour destined never to be undone.

There was a short tap on the door, and Mother Vera entered without waiting for an invitation. She wore a grin on her face, carrying a piece of parchment and the green-hilted sword.

'I've done it!' she said happily, putting the sword down on the table along with the parchment.

'Done what?' asked the abbot, making his way back to his chair and settling into it. He then saw the parchment and the writing.

'Oh excellent!' Brother Arden cried, his hands in the air. 'Read it, read it!'

The badger mother picked the parchment back up again.

'Now, this may be slightly inaccurate, as I was practically having to make up words to have the translation make sense,' she said apologetically. 'But, this is the best I could come up with, so, here goes:

'The place where you wield me, is the place where you shield me,

For I am more than the sword, than the ship at the ford,

What I present is what I can deal thee.

Here the guardian lies buried, within your grasp I am ferried,

And will stay trussed and bound, 'til with a round I am found,

With just one circle I am sullied.

Of hundreds of pairs I am but one odd twin, carrying the key that tickles the pin,

Kept apart to keep secret the moor, the winding rivers, the woodlands of lore,

Open my sibling to force my hand, and he will come and conquer your land.

These are the artefacts of royal decree, given to those who travel the sea,

Mem'ry to land where their loyalty lies, and freedom and glory burn in their eyes,

Keeping the coast and the sea, maintaining the truth and serving the free.'

Mother Vera looked up at Brother Arden and Abbot Peromus, waiting for a response to her recital.

'I've read it twice, but only as a means to make sure the literature made sense,' she said. 'As for actually deciphering the poem, well, I thought I'd leave that to you two. You've spent your whole lives reading, you're probably better at deciphering puzzles than an old warrior like myself.'

Vera handed the parchment to Abbot Peromus, who scanned the text and tried to understand it. He looked at the sword, thinking it would give him some inspiration, but it failed to do so. He looked at the twelve lines in the Ancient Mustelidae-like writing on the sword, wondering if certain keywords written in the original language gave clues to the location of certain parts of the sword that could reveal its secret.

'Here Arden, why don't you have a look,' he said, handing it over to the Abbey Recorder. If knowledge of language and reading were the keys to the ability of deciphering puzzles, then he was by far and away the most qualified for the job.

Brother Arden appeared to do the same as the abbot; looking at the common translation, and then looking back at the original language, but then he shook his head and decied to focus on the translation instead.

'"The place where you wield me, is the place where you shield me",' he said out loud. 'I think that is an important line. And, "of hundreds of pairs I am but one odd twin". I wonder if we require the "twin" to unravel the puzzle?'

Mother Vera suddenly had a thought. 'Father Abbot, in the picture that I used to translate the writing, it featured a sword and a _shield_,' she said excitedly. 'What if the twin is a shield, and that holds the key to deciphering the puzzle?'

'Maybe you're right, Vera,' said the abbot. The events with Gibb Dartag and Master Felwin had rather exhausted him, and was not really in the mood for riddles. He stood up again and walked over to a bookcase at the other end of the study. He found a dark, wooden-bound book at around his eye-level, and pulled it out of the bookcase, and then rummaged around in the space where it had sat. His paw soon found a lever, and he pulled it sharply, causing a whirring sound which eventually pulled the bookcase to one side.

There were no looks of surprise from his guests: they had seen the small space behind the bookcase before. It had been created secretly by an unknown abbot many years ago, probably even before the Great Peace, to store some items integral to some of the darker parts of the abbey's history. These were objects to which a particular abbot or abbess had felt too connected or thought too important to throw away in spite of popular opinion. The reasons for the secret storage of some of the pieces had been lost to history: a piece of wood with six angry claw marks along it; the plans for a large crossbow-like weapon; a scallop shell; and others whose past were either best left forgotten or the subject to legendary tales told by the older Abbey dwellers.

Normally, only an abbot would know about the moving bookcase, but Peromus had decided to tell his two closest friends, Brother Arden and Mother Vera, about it - a decision he had no doubt had once been taken by other past abbey leaders.

'I'll keep the sword and the translation in here,' he said, taking the sword and parchment from the desk and placing them carefully in a corner of the small space. 'At least, until we happen upon the shield, if that ever does occur. Meanwhile, we have bigger issues at hand.'

/

The lower basements were a dark, dingy, subterranean area of Redwall Abbey. Some hypothesised that they weren't even officially part of the abbey: but in fact were the deepest cellars of the ancient castle that once stood on the site. Once forgotten, they had been rediscovered many years ago, and minor improvements had been made to those areas that hadn't caved in. A large, heavy bolted door also now blocked the entrance to it from the basements, after it was found out many of the Dibbuns would venture down into the area as a show of bravery.

The lower basements were also quite the library: over the many hundreds of years that Redwall Abbey had stood, the walls of the dark, dingy, crypt-like space had become ordained with reams of molescript. Shortly after Redwall Abbey had been constructed, the legendary Moledeep, stories of which were often passed between generations of moles, had been abandoned as the population moved into the abbey. However, occasionally, moles would stumble upon the lower basements and etch out their own stories and tales, most of which were about their ancient home. The legend of Moledeep was perhaps even more curious and its location speculated on more than Brockhall, the ancient badger dwelling.

Gibb Dartag was dragged into one of the small rooms off the long corridor that formed the spine of the lower basements. Master Felwin placed a chair in the middle of the room, and Dartag was bound to it with rope, tied by Master Simm; his expertise in tying knots was unmatched. Dartag struggled wildly, but his efforts were in vain. He quickly calmed when Master Pax and Master Simm begrudgingly left on the instruction of Felwin.

'So, scum,' said Felwin contemptuously. 'What do you know?'

Dartag declined to answer. He simply stared hatefully back at Felwin.

'ANSWER ME!' screamed the otter suddenly, pouncing forward and laying a hard, back hand punch across Dartag's snout.

'I know nothing!' Dartag shouted back.

'Of course you do!' Felwin responded. 'Where did you come from? What were you before you came to Redwall?'

Gibb Dartag looked at Master Felwin oddly - the otter had asked the question with a strange variation in pitch that suggested the question was more rhetorical than he had intended.

'You already know...' he said slowly. Felwin backed up, and Dartag continued, but with more hostility. 'You already know, don't you? How do you know? How?'

Felwin, ironically, became intimated by his prisoner. However, realising the idiocy of the situation, quickly laid back into him, only realising afterwards that he was betraying an order given to him by his Father Abbot. Then again, it had escalated this far, so it didn't really matter.

'You know, we're very good friends with some enemies of yours,' said Felwin, leaning in to the fox. 'So good, in fact, we hosted a party for them a few days ago. An' they told us all about your old sailing ship, _Red Raider _innit? Y'see, they've got a few of yore old shipmates locked up in their cells.'

'The badger and the fire?' said Dartag suddenly, petrified.

'That's right,' smiled Felwin. 'Salamandastron.'

Dartag suddenly frowned, confused, looking down and thinking about Felwin's response. 'Er, yeah, Salamandaston,' he said, recovering, and putting a look of horror back on his face. Whilst he had not been thinking about the mountain, he was not about to reveal that to Master Felwin, and he still knew of the feared Long Patrol.

'They told us all about your li'l adventures,' said Felwin. 'Ships with fire?'

Dartag didn't think. 'You know about the mouse and the standard?' he blurted out. As soon as he saw the expression on Felwin's face, he knew he had spoken far too soon.

'What mouse? What standard?'

Felwin tried to recover. 'Er... nuthin'.'

This earnt him another weighted punch, this time so hard that it lifted the front two legs of the chair up, and, before Dartag could shift his body to counteract, he fell backwards onto the cold, stone ground.

'Tell me!' shouted Felwin, kneeling down to look at Dartag straight in the eye.

'The fancy sword that was confisca'ed off me by Brother Arden,' said Dartag. 'I got it off a mouse who I killed on Sampetra. He was with a group of otters, stoats and weasels, as well as a couple of female squirrels. They 'ad a flag, which was the same as the flag on the ship that shot fire. We reckoned they're the same. I reckon they're also the same lot that've landed on the north east shore.'

Felwin's eyes did not blink. Dartag could not tell if he was befuddled or furious.

_'What_ _sword?'_

* * *

NOTE

Still working on the world map! However, I have been working from the work of another Redwall fan for the design of Redwall Abbey. The link wouldn't work, so just go to Google, and type in "jadematrix" and "Redwall Abbey". Should be there.

The library is located not just in the small west wing (which hosts other rooms below it), but also in the attic space of the connecting block below it. The abbot's study is located on the first floor of the block to the left of the library. Dartag's workspace (now former workspace) is located by the large trees in the southeast corner.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Lord Meledan Saxonos was rarely bored by things, in fact, most aspects of his life as ruler of Salamandastron enthralled him. Even the retrospective forces presentations. If they were delivered by General Granden, Patrol General Warren, Colonel Dancepaw, Colonel Staker, Lieutenant Colonel Jolling or any of the engineering brigadiers, he wouldn't mind at all. It was only when Colonel Windscut gave them that he found himself being distracted by the smallest things. Occasionally, Lieutenant Colonel Jolling would secretly entertain him by creating paper aeroplanes, but unfortunately it was the lack of the colonel's company that was one of the main points on the agenda.

Since the 10th Honour and Hunt had returned from its patrol, it was preparing for its redeployment, something that would likely not happen for another few weeks. It was however considered prudent to be prepared, and this was a mantra adopted by Colonel Windscut with a passion. As such, it had taken him no more than a single day to outline the proposed patrol roster for his regiment once the day came that the 12th Stalwart and Sound Regiment would cross the border back into Mossflower Country, far to the east near to the Great Inland Lake. The Southern Patrol Route took the Long Patrol division responsible for it far south, to the border of the Kingdom of Southsward, before doubling back and joining the Cross-Woodland Path, travelling the length of the Great South Stream and returning to Salamandastron. It was one of the most extensive patrol routes, and as such was the longest, especially considering Southsward was rarely travelled to by creatures outside the Long Patrol. Even after six days, the 12th Stalwart and Sound Regiment would still only be a quarter of the way towards the kingdom, marching across an area of land known as the Traveller's Expanse - named so because of its low population and sparse habitation. It wasn't particularly special, just the area one had to cross when travelling between the two countries of Mossflower and Southsward. Even the 12th Stalwart and Sound would only just reach the border in the space of a month, and that was marching half the days at double time.

Colonel Windscut read out his patrol detail slowly, monotonously, his eyes glued to the parchment, positioned no more than a couple of inches away from his nose. His patrol was also taking into account the fact that another regiment would not be available for their normal training exercises once they reached the accepted border of Mossflower Country, three miles south of the Great South Stream.

'...as the 5th Valour and Victory Specials will not be available for our normal combat exercises on return, I have decided not to waste the opportunity for training and instead appoint the 2nd Platoon of 1 Squadron to the position normally taken by the 2nd Special Unit,' he intoned boringly. 'I have confidence in this platoon to the extent that I believe they can serve as an appropriate replacement for Lieutenant Colonel Jolling's unit...'

Thankfully, he did not get an opportunity to finish, when shouts reverberating around the mountain from the various sentries cut him off rather unceremoniously. Slightly miffed, the colonel put the parchment down on the table with a slam and crossed his arms indignantly.

'What in the flamin' fires of the forge is goin' on?'

A young hare appeared at the window of the conference room. 'Beggin' your pardon, commander,' he said, saluting Lord Meledan. He then spied General Granden. 'Oh, and yourself, General.' He saw the rest. 'Oh, er, and you Colonel, Colonel and Lieutenant Colonel.' The commander of the Salamander Guards, Major Keller, stepped out from his standing position next to the window, into the sentry's eyeline, who delivered a final salute. 'Major.'

'Yes, yes, get on with it, Private,' said Major Keller.

'Er, we've got a bird on the roof that wants to talk to you, sah,' he said, pointing upwards towards the summit. Suddenly, a shadow descended upon the hare, who looked behind and saw the bird approaching him. 'Aah!' he screamed in surprise, quickly ducking out of the way to let it land.

The large golden eagle appeared at the window, and then managed to awkwardly squeeze inside, presenting itself to the group, stretching.

'Ye be Meledan Saxonos, Lord o' Salamandastron?' said the eagle in a pleasant Highlander accent.

'Aye,' replied Meledan.

'Ah carry news on behalf o' an owl by tha name o' Otis,' he said. 'From Redwall Abbey.'

The eagle held out a talon, and dropped a scroll that had been curled up in it. Lord Meledan got up and took the parchment, unrolling it and reading it to himself. As he did so, the Long Patrol commanders watched his face intently, as it changed from indifference, to concern, to disbelief, and finally to stern concentration.

'Windscut, your standing orders are null,' he said, the army commander rearing within him. 'A large invasion force has landed on the eastern shore, taking over the settlement of Marshtown. The 10th Honour and Hunt will merge with the 25th Fur and Freedom to create the 1st Army Group, which you will be in charge of. I have promoted you to Field Marshal Caddy Windscut effective immediately, and you will take charge of the 1st Army Group. Upon reaching Noonvale, you will also take command of the 5th Valour and Victory Specialist Regiment, and together you will lay down preparations for an offensive against the invading force. On your way, I want you to send a runner and co-ordinate your attack plan with the Camp Parley otters.'

Lord Meledan turned to Major Keller. 'I want you to send a runner to the 12th Stalwart and Sound Regiment, tell them that their patrol activities are no longer priority, and that they are to return to the mountain to await further orders.' He then turned to Lieutenant Colonel Warren, commander of the Patrol Group. 'Warren, you are to co-ordinate with Major Keller in a defense strategy for the protection of Salamandastron.'

Without waiting for a further explanation, the congregation departed. Newly promoted Field Marshal Windscut exited to rally his troops for an immediate despatch, whilst Major Keller and Lieutenant Colonel Warren left together, already discussing the mountain's weak and exposed areas. Colonel Dancepaw of the 25th Fur and Freedom Regiment followed in Windscut's wake, off to gather his own forces.

Lord Meledan nodded curtly to the golden eagle, and then he too left the room with General Bannox Granden. The eagle scurried back out of the window and took off.

'Bannox, you too are promoted to Grand Field Marshal of the Mountain Group,' said Meledan, maintaining his commanding posture. 'I don't want you to feel like your rank is being pulled from under you.'

'Not at all, sah,' said Granden. 'I'd be happier to stay in command here than go with the 1st Army Group.' They departed at the next fork in the tunnels.

Once the badger lord reached his quarters, he closed the door, screwed up the piece of paper he was still holding and tossed it at the wall. He picked up the wooden chair at his desk and threw it at the same spot, this time with a roar. Falling to his knees, he stared implicitly at the broken seat. As he contemplated the fate of the army group he was sending north, as well as the mountain, a hare from somewhere above him called out.

'Sail to the east! Nope... no, it's gone again!'


End file.
